


'Diviyoni'

by Vuetyris



Series: Operative Warren - Sprout [8]
Category: Warframe
Genre: An offer that cant be refused, Awkward Conversations, Biomechanical biology, Birthday Presents, Body Horror, Finding out the past, Gen, Injury Recovery, Organic maintenenace, Teenage mercenary, past trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-10-01 16:23:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20334880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vuetyris/pseuds/Vuetyris
Summary: Weeks have passed since the 'voiding incident', as T'viska calls it. With him otherwise sidelined from his injuries, and Kiln burned out from fighting, it leaves the teenage tenno the only one to take up the mercenary duties - thankfully, not all on his own.Somatic link severed, T'viska still worries, and wants to do something to show he still cares about his emotionally distant son - but the Lotus has confiscated any information left on Lua after it broke free of the void.





	1. Chapter 1

A sigh breathes through the darkness of the residential quarters, a body shuffling itself to shift upwards despite the painful flinches that follow each precarious movement.

Once wounded arms push the loki up from the bed, heaving himself to sit at the edge of the previously retired bed now situated as a secondary, stained with the seep of dark blood that had eased themselves past the bandaging that still lies wrapped around his center and chest; around upper and lower arms where claws once achingly carved. There’s a twitch in the loki’s features as he tries, emphasis on tries, to sit himself comfortably at the side of the low bed, swatting away the curious nose of a kavat. Shoulders hunched forward as he tries to rest against half-bent knees.

Off towards his right he watches the distant view through the hologram display even as it sits beneath a dimmer. The diamond-like brilliance of Neptune’s Triton resigns muted as the light still overwhelms his optical sensors, still scrambled by the nervous overload, numbed by the numbing agent coursing through his veins. T’viska just stares, hands wrung against the other in silence.

It stings.

Static still rings through his optical sensors as he tries again to reconnect to Suuir’s systems, to engage with the simple relay connection that he once found so easy to manage beforehand, he now struggles to keep the connection intact – only able to read the cephalon’s words through the display to the side. Claws pick against his arm wraps, peeling against them in idle motions as the connection fails once more – he snarls. And tries again.

If he could just keep one thing in check… he wouldn’t feel as irritated.

Resigned numb, he ignores the sigh of the opening door, keeping his sight on the hologram off to one side as at the other the oberon sits, dropping a small duffle of cleaning supplies at his feet. “How’re you feeling?”

“Off,” the loki grumbles, looking back to where the oberon had requested his arm, giving it over willingly. “Has he told you about the whole, feeling transference pain and stuff, right?”

“One of the first things he’s told me,” Kiln sighs, unwrapping bandaging on the loki’s upper left shoulder to check the scratch scarring that remains there. “I had assumed that it wasn’t mutually sympathetic… guess I was wrong.” Faint stained scars still remain on the loki’s shoulder, etched and blemished by the internal glow of energy compensation – too low to heal surface wounds just yet.

“I’ve known for a while, kept it from him since we first established transference back during the war…” T’viska allows the oberon to manipulate his wounded limb, barely flinching as a syringe bites into the flesh of his inner elbow – a direct infusion of energy, same as every 12 hours. “Now, just like when Lua vanished, I can’t sense him, even though I know he’s out there and alright… but not knowing what’s going on with him, when he’s hurt or whatever pain he’s feeling…” his arm drops down onto his lap as the bag of energy solution is hung onto one of his horns – already well used to it at this point, exhaling as he listens to Kiln at his side. “I should’ve told him.”

“Likely,” the oberon replies, and with a casual push against the loki’s left shoulder blade is given access to the bandaging around the other’s center. Cutting them off starting over the shoulders. Discarding them off to the side where they remain patched with wine-tinting blood. “It was one of his main concerns.”

The loki’s mouth flinches, letting his muscles resign lax as the firm hands tend to the scratch wounds decorating his back, scarring around his torso and chest, centered over his heart and lungs where he can still feel the echoing gore of ozone against his exposed lungs. There lies a moment in the silence as Kiln works to clean the crusts of dark blood, blotching ointment against what remains of the self-mutilating wounds. And eventually rewrapped up in full, chest compressed to keep everything in place.

“Kiln,” T’viska speaks up, head resting against his fist as he lies to the side; the next to be cleaned is the scratches along his outer thighs. A former gouging that still makes it difficult to move around on his own. “After that voiding incident, could you feel anything in the open somatic connections? I have a feeling mine gotten busted… can’t even keep connected to the orbiter anymore.” He keeps his optics turned away from where the compression wrap is pulled away from his weak limb, where tissue still strains to reconnect to muscle and bone.

“It’s your transference bolt; I took a look at it while you were under after Suuir got your vitals stabilized. Whatever blow you took earlier made most of the damage, and whatever happened during… that, might’ve just overloaded it. Pushed it past its limits.” The oberon inspects the tissue damage, still trying to discern between the legacy scars and the fresh rips of the loki’s wounds. He tends to the loose staples they’ve make-shift to keep the strips of tissue in place – easier to reconnect them than to regrow a complete chunk of muscle.

“I hope you’re right,” T’viska sighs, claws massaging against his temple between where his horns meet his scalp. “Ever since… it feels like I lost connection. Not just with the circuitry, or somatics or whatever garbage the entire system is called,” he snarls, jaw clenching as wire digs through his healing muscles – to secure a chunk back into place. “Everything is scrambled, can’t keep a stable fucking connection to Suuir anymore.” He heaves, “I just… feel really cut off, especially from the kid.”

The loki flinches as the wire is pulled taut, twisted and eventually clipped to finally keep it in place. A pat signifies the check is complete; and as he holds back a wince, T’viska rolls over to his other side to allow the oberon to continue working.

“So, you feel detached with the transference bolt damaged,” Kiln sighs as the loki rests against him, lifting the damaged leg to undo the bandaging.

“Yeah,” T’viska chuffs, “you could say that.”

The silence continues between them as Kiln unwraps the bandaging, checking on the scars that once were jagged scratches that now lie as shallow rifts – it’ll tale a few more weeks to heal at most, a few more days at the very least. It’s without so much of another word that the fresh bandaging wraps around the wounds that still remain; over thighs and stomach, chest and arms, new material that squeeze around the loki’s chest as his thoughts still ache, letting only as much of a grunt leave him as he stares out at the hologram as Kiln pulls the material tight. Once completed, finished with tending to the loki’s wounds, Kiln discards the remnants outside the room.

T’viska sighs, letting his optical sensors fall numb.

Weight sitting down at his side a moment later he flickers them back on, acknowledging where the oberon sits in a slight crouch to his side – too tall to easily sit on the makeshift cot. A secondary bed as the tenno’s sit across from them, where the kavats had since made it their own.

As he watches over the mission data-log that has since transposed itself on the surface screen, T’viska exhales, hands balling between his resting knees. “Well, at least I know he’s out there working now, not cooped up in here… I’m happy for him, sure, but not knowing if he’s fine or not, or if he’s hurting in some way. After all we’ve gone through its… uncomfortable, you know?”

A deep sigh rolls through Kiln, “sometimes, its best just not knowing, T’viska.”

Faux brows pull on the loki’s face, “what do you mean, Kiln.”

“Knev… I always felt them hurting, exactly where and when, and no matter what I did, what we did, nothing seemed to have eased their pain. Every time the topic came up it only ended with them apologizing, profusely.”

Silence hangs between the warframe; T’viska sighs.

“While you were under, he told me everything. How much it worried him that he might be causing you harm, how much he made you worry, how he felt like a burden for distracting you from your mercenary work.” T’viska draws tense. “He knew something was up whenever he harmed himself, and you immediately went to him, asking if he was okay, if you needed anything… It’s probably for the best you don’t know, have some distance between the two of you. He needs to become his own person now.”

Beneath them the orbiter shifts, a turning yaw that snaps the loki’s head over towards the hologram that displays their current position.

It was only a shift to retain current orbit around the moon; the loki’s shoulders droop.

A palm pats against his back, the oberon heaving a sigh as he moves to half-kneel. “Get some rest, you can ask him how he’s doing when he comes back. Try not to worry too much, T.”

T’viska grunts – but agrees, he’s still too injured to do more than to let his body recover from the incident, flinching as he pulls himself back up onto the cot. “During the next checkup, can you try and figure out how to fix this bolt,” he points around towards the back of his neck. “It’s killing me not to keep myself preoccupied aside from looking at the ceiling.”

Moving to stand at full height, the oberon nods. “It shouldn’t be too much of an issue, I’ll check with Suuir to see if theres anything I can do about it.”

“Thanks,” T’viska grumbles, taking the edge of a blanket before yanking it over himself – his damaged body unable to retain a consistent internal temperature.


	2. Chapter 2

Anchor joints sigh as they bear the weight and heave of a painted sangria colored Liset, easing it down through the open chamber of the hanger down into the cradle as the tailfin thrusters clam against their housings. Tones of bronze and honey-yellow paint around the upper shell of the refurbished landing craft, in both geographic boxing and idle trailing around the defined shape, a mere personalizing touch to something that once was relegated for scrap. Within it Warren settles the control column up against the console as the lighting goes dim, dropping himself back against the scratched cushioning. Still a work in progress – he rests an arm over his face, over his eyes as he breathes another steady exhale.

Exhausted; he grits his teeth as he forces his aching knees to respond, standing up on the make-shift bandaging that makes his haphazard footwear. Giving a slight backwards pat to his partner’s shoulder, he picks up the datapad from the console as it finally goes dim. The only light breathing in through the opening down into the hanger. “We’re home, Arkis,” the teenager sighs, shouldering his jacket back into place.

Modular antenna flare backwards as the waframe stretches out, arms reaching towards the console with fingers pleated with the other, legs stretching out and kicking up against it with a brief relegated chip.

As they continue to stretch themselves awake, the tenno moves over to the storage units sat in place just behind the pilot seats, checking into a drawstring bag for the capture-chips they still need to deliver once they reach a relay station. Seven in all, he counts, depositing them back inside before he tucks it into the side pocket of his jacket, patting them against his side. Turning towards the nova, he barks, “Arkis, let’s go.”

A chide chirp returns the sentiment; an excalibur arm pulls the nova out of their seat.

The exact same nova from the Venusian facility Warren had audited with T’viska.

Opposed to their brown and golden coloration, the silver-grey of the limb sits starkly in place of where their left arm would reside, a band of belts keeping the replacement firmly in place. It’s the only oddity that makes the nova stand out, their antenna-like features flickering backwards as they follow Warren down and into the hanger, silent save for the occasional clicks and chirps that make their vocal systems.

“How’s your arm doing now?” Warren turns Arkis as they start making their way up to the residential section of the orbiter. “Still got that channeling issue,” he briefs, tucking his new datapad into the inner pocket of his jacket.

Arkis nods, suggesting their shoulder over to the tenno with a chirp, their antenna flickering with a hint of distain and frustration – energy fumes from the junction between the two parts, where the flesh of the excalibur limb meets over the seared tissue of their own body.

Warren takes the nova’s arm for a moment, trying to look into where the electrical and nervous system of the two meet. The good side of his face – the side he allows to meet the orbiter, winces. “I’ll have to take a look at it later, might need to clear the area up first. Don’t want to go prodding around and get it infected.”

Again, Arkis nods.

Warren pulls himself back, shoulders dropping as exhaustion still clings to the visible features of his face clung with dust and sweat. His hair sits blotched with grey dust forward and back, parts stuck into firmed mats of spilt blood – his and of corpus, the remnants of carnage that also lies over his jacket. His hands lie the same as they pull the jacket back to close, returning his sight back up to the ramp leading upwards.

The dirtied euphona sits heavily at his hip, as does the portion of the spira blade not fashioned into a short dagger.

“I’m back,” Warren announces as he walks up into the upper landing; only just loud enough for himself to hear as he makes his way over to the workstation with Arkis at his heels. “Once I’m done with this and cleaned up, I’ll take a look at your shoulder.” The nova chirps in response, remaining at the tenno’s side as he lays the euphona down onto the surface.

Despite the crusting made of stuck dust and the stain of blood, Warren easily begins to pull apart the heavy caliber pistol. Springs, chamber, loader and energy storage units are easily pulled out from where a sturdy shell once covered the parts, snapping a cloth free of static before he gets to work to clean the assembly. A dip of soapy water is enough to gently coax the blood free from the components, taking care of each piece as Arkis hovers over his shoulder – Warren doesn’t at all mind. And reaches down at his side as a slim body rubs across his thighs, scratching the underside of a kavat’s chin.

Reassembly doesn’t take him that much longer, setting it back down alongside the holster and the spira blade.

Warren shuffles off his jacket before handing it to Arkis – the nova slips it on instead of holding it. “Going to take a shower; we’ll meet up at the bench, alright?” The nova nods; Warren sighs, relieved to be back home.

Within the shower stall Warren aggressively ruffles the towel through his wet shoulder-length curls.

What was once scar-tissue on the left side of his face bares a vicious snarl of sharp teeth – features twisted by the void as he breathes through the vents located along the left of his throat. Water still clings to the walls around him as he leans against the backwall, breathing a sigh as he allows himself to slide down to the bench that marks the back section. Letting the towel drift from his crown to over his shoulders, his arms pull to cross over the bodysuit he refuses to remove, head leaning back to stare up at the ceiling. What was once normal sight remains voided at the left side of his face – amidst the corruption that had since taken half of his face.

Eye marked with black sclera, neither pupil nor cornea make their place, instead nestled within is a clouding white that swirls in thought… he’s thankful there is no reflection in the ceiling… as he dreads what he’d see staring back.

Sight falling shut, he claws through the tangles of hair as he leans onto his knees – letting his fully corrupted limb marked with boneclaws separate strand from strand, picking through the areas potentially still stuck with blood. He takes his time with it as he meditates on the slight pull at his scalp, piecing through his thoughts as anxiety congests within his chest through the mental preparation. On the sort of conversations may meet him once he exits the shower and enters the living quarters, of whatever stress he may have to face before sleep and another mission departure.

Warren’s clawed hand divides through his curls in continued idle thought.

Only once he’s certain there are no more tangles, he brushes his hair to lie over the corruption that marks the left side of his face. As he pulls himself up to his feet he also pulls the towel back over his head, whipping it down to dry the last of the water that has still clung to his adaptive bodysuit – he dreads to see what changes he might see beneath; hoping he can make it last just a little while longer.

It’s only once he’s pulled on his usual undershirt, pants, and casual jacket does he step back into the orbiter proper, barely letting himself acknowledge the soundless click of his new-found clawed feet bare on the metal. But he doesn’t return to the living quarters just yet, instead turning heel to the medbay for a pack of antiseptics he had stacked alongside the inner walls – glancing towards two heavy crates sit at the side of the room. Where reposed limbs sit stacked one over the other.

He turns back with a sigh as he jostles the equipment against him, hoping it’ll be enough to tend to Arkis’ limb.

The ease of the door stills the teenager’s blood for a moment as he stares forth, looking past his father and Kiln before he resumes his steps – ignoring the soft-spoken acknowledgement as he walks past.

T’viska’s limp keeps him from turning around, only allowed to look back as the teenager returns to his silent partner’s side. “Don’t worry about him, T,” the oberon gently moves the loki to proceed.

His legs barren of bandaging, there still lies fissures of wounds and metal wire that keeps the blooming rifts together – still in the process of healing as the loki limps after the oberon’s cautious steps. An arm held at his back and beneath one wounded limb, another briefing at his front, T’viska has to lean against the oberon for support as they try to make the circuit between the two ends of the hallway – where each step makes the loki hiss. “Can we, have a break after each quarter,” he glances over to the taller warframe, “thighs still aching.”

“We can only go halfway like last time,” the oberon briefs, concern lacing his voice as he assists the loki to sit back against the pylon that leads down to the cephalon’s visible neural core. “No bleeding so far,” he remarks as he checks T’viska’s injuries.

“I want to walk, not limp around like a lame kubrodon,” the loki chides, heaving himself to try and move back to the floor – nearly stumbling down if it wasn’t for the oberon’s palm catching him. “I don’t want to just, sit around as he does all the mercenary work – you’ve know what he’s been through, I should be the one taking care of everything but,” a sigh heaves, hand pulling up to crest between temple and horn. “I don’t know.”

Kiln lifts T’viska again to stand at his side, letting the loki brace against him through hands and weight. “So, it just doesn’t feel right to not be doing anything, when you’ve gotten used to doing everything?”

T’viska’s lip curls, “I guess you can say that.” He limps himself forward as energy sparks between the wounded rifts in his thighs, “until now, I was the one always out working… I failed as a parent, and now he’s the one left to do what I should be doing, taking care of him and his friend.”

Despite the oberon’s relatively featureless face, he draws a frown. The subject is still a wounded topic. “Still having trouble with connecting to Suuir?” Kiln briefs.

“About as much as before,” T’viska sighs, limping over rest against the wall before the medbay, only glancing into where the boxes of limbs sit before turning back. “But I’ve asked Suuir if he could find any manifests on how to repair a faulty bolt – nothing on his or your previous ship’s cephalon memory banks.”

Looking down the hallway, Kiln can still sense the teenager’s somatic signal… but he’s been well left out of receiving it, locked out since the incident. “I’m sure there’s some way to repair it – just give it some more time.”

T’viska pulls himself to stand at the oberon’s side, teeth gritting as he almost collapses in a heap. “I can only hope,” snarls, “the kid might be able to help but… I don’t know how to apologize for being such a shit father,” the loki almost laughs, pulling himself up against the Kiln for support.

Kiln glances, “you know what he likes, maybe I can pick up something from a relay…?”

There is a sigh, a shake of forward curling horns, “no… I’ve tried that before… the incident, and that’s not enough for this kinda screw up on my part.”

“There has to be something,” the oberon sighs, partial to just cutting the conversation short before it goes any farther. The only respite being that T’viska needs to take a break at the midpoint – his legs still shaking through the pain.

“On Lua,” T’viska gris between his teeth, hands pressing in kneads against his painful thighs. “When I managed to find him… I didn’t look for any documentation, there could be something on those to help, right?” He glances to where the oberon has knelt to his left, palms checking the beads of blood that welt from his wounds. “We barely made it out of there before… I should’ve gone for them when I had the chance, he has some sort of recollection of Mars, before the Zariman.”

Kiln heaves an exhale as he moves back to the loki’s side, where the grasp of golden claws pull around his waist for support. “It’s unlikely there is anything left, T’viska… it’s been several months since it broken out of the void.”

“I know that,” T’viska hisses, “but for him, it’s worth a try.”

There’s a pause. “T’viska, you can’t walk.”

“But you can,” glares back, the loki limping himself to try and pause the other warframe’s steps. “For the kid, can you at least try and see if there’s anything left?” He watches as the oberon pauses, baring his weight to shift.

With a deep sigh, “I’ll try.”

As he moves to secure the limb back into place, Warren makes one final wipe check for any residual blood or crystalized energy from between the connective tissue. Gently, the wet fabric presses between bare muscle and Arkis’ scapula joint, over where muscles once torn barely keep the replacement arm in place, a fusion still requiring much time to heal. As he discards the stained material, he hitches to hold it up towards the fastenings bolted into the nova’s shoulder – where a hand holds the limb firmly into place as Warren pulls the straps through and tugs to affirm it in place.

One part of two measures to keep the limb snuggly in place, Warren makes one final check, brushing the hanging straps to the side as he dabs beneath the junction point. Wordlessly, the nova raises their arms when the teenager is done with the final clean up, watching as he pulls the straps around to the other side – then back again to wrap beneath chest and back, around and over their sighing ventilation.

In his teeth, Warren holds the clasps to keep them in place, letting them drop into his hand as Arkis holds the ends in place.

“There,” he sighs, bundling up the stained material into a ball to dispose of. “Should hold until after the next set.” The nova chirps in response, antenna flaring back in distain. “Don’t channel from it until the connectors realign, alright?” There’s a small frown in his features, just enough coax a sigh from the nova.

Rolling a longer strap of fabric around the bundle, Warren hands it over to Arkis, “can you dispose of this for me? Into the foundry,” he keeps his voice low, glancing over towards where the door still remains shut – uncertain how much longer Kiln and T’viska will be.

There’s an enthusiastic nod from the nova, collecting the bundle into their hands before they roll off the couch, quickly making their way up the short set of stairs before turning out into the main portion of the orbiter – and meanwhile, Warren turns himself to the bed.

Easily, he picks Rhubarb up from the crumbled sheets before letting the blue-eyed kavat grumble themselves down to the floor. With his new data-pad in hand he tucks himself up beneath the sheets, curling towards the wall as he flickers through the hologram projection that quietly hums beneath his palms. Past mission results stain at the side of the screen, others he had considered before sit muted as he scrolls pass them, turning his attention to the personalized inbox he had requested of Suuir – an unread message sits within, encoded in Orokin.

It merely takes a flicker to unveil the message; the language spoke broken, but its enough he can understand the intent. “Skybound, Third floor, Cargo Maprico, ask for Simone.”

A slight grin meets his features, closing the message. “I’d like to go by Earth… can you try and find some missions there?”

A cephalon pops up at the side of the screen – it isn’t Suuir, evident by the shape. ‘I’ll relay it,’ the pale blue cephalon responds – their text the only measure for them to respond outside the liset.

“Thanks, Lain, I’ll look over them later.”

Suuir relays the information to Kiln as he waits for T’viska to catch his breath; on their third pass over the orbiter’s cephalon core. “Guess we’re swinging by earth,” he cants over to the loki.

He only sighs, resting back against the pylon. Dismay gritting through his teeth.


	3. Chapter 3

T’viska’s liset whispers in its descent down to the exposed Orokin platform; lunar dust kicks up beneath the tailfins as the engines storm within the silence, hushing themselves quiet as the oberon surveys his surroundings. In the corner of his vision Suuir marks the map, a layout tasked by T’viska and freshly salvaged from the mission archives, ‘entrance is just ahead,’ their words mark, designating a waypoint on the other side of the now well bloodied platform bared in the open rift. Kiln folds himself out of the pilot seat with an exhausted exhale, far too weary to consider the possibility that there may be scavengers still around – even as energy swirls beneath his palms.

Stepping out onto the platform and off the liset’s ramp, Kiln surveys the surrounding Orokin ruins and the fallout of aged combat. Bullet holes and the grazing cook of lasers still lay their mark alongside the overspill of blood. Corpses lie dusted around the oberon as he proceeds further towards the rubble that marks the entrance to the orokin structure, wherein its been rolled, removed, taken out of place from the circular entry that has been ripped to the side – more than enough for the towering oberon to step within.

Off to one side of the entry wall, he takes notice of the hole dug out into the wall.

Holding a hand against his skull, Kiln tuns his frequency to reach the orbiter’s somatic tether, “T’viska, you read me.”

There’s an initial glitch in the reception, cut off by a guttural snarl made through the loki’s throat. “Barely, still have to use the transponder,” he lets out a grumble, “you should be in the guard post, what’s it look like?”

Kiln looks before him – a hole blasted out; heat damage dug into the walls surrounding where the security lock once stood – the panel laid out on the floor amongst the rubble. “Blasted,” is all the oberon responds, “looks to be either Corpus…” he trails off. Leaving the silence to speak for him, all to aware of the searing the bodies around him lie resigned, torched and wounded by sharp blades and ignition fire.

There are no bodies lying in the following room, the area well excavated of components and salvaged a he continues to wander unhindered, rattling off the sights as they present themselves. “There’s no machinery left within the next room,” he calls over, listening as the loki bickers with one of the kavats, “there’s no bodies here beside grineer or corpus, T’viska.” And further he walks, past where the echoes of soot remains of Orokin gold and gilding.

“Guess it has all been cleared out,” the loki sighs on the other end of the connection, resting back upon the wall as his legs stretch out and off the bed. “Last I was there… there was child corpses among the guard,” he swallows, hand pressing to knead over his temple. “Can you read anything from the arboriforms?”

Faint features twist on the oberon’s face, glancing to a nearby flux of white flora that lines the wall.

He presses his palm against it, taking notice of a mild stain of purple-blue further down the hall. “It’s null, I don’t hear anything… but looks like you have left a mark here.”

“Fantastic,” T’viska sighs, “so… likely that it’s the Lotus sect, right?”

“Has the hallmarks of it,” the oberon snorts, glancing around to where the charring of ember steps remains, where fissures of heat crawled through the floor and blasted underfoot. Impact marks line the wall, rubble crumbling around crushed corpses. “Several times, at most. Blood has stared to layer, may still be contested territory.”

Another sigh breathes over the commlink, a mild disagreement as T’viska pushes a kavat aside. “Best get home then, figure out what we’re going to do later, once my legs are functional,” he grits.

With a simple nod Kiln turns heel, easily rerouting himself out of the remnants of the orokin complex as he passes the signage that designates it a former detention center; a laboratory masquerading as something it is not. Of course, he dismisses it, already numbed to the reality of the time before, “best bet, I figure is if we find someone to talk to on the Lotus relays,” he heaves instead, stepping over rubble and bodies. “Knev had me run supply stops between mission sets before, maybe I could run by one of those, nearest one is around Mercury,” and he steps out onto the platform walkway.

There is a pause in the communication line, giving space for the oberon to board the liset.

“No; let’s wait until I can properly walk first. I know him the most… it might be best for me to find someone to talk to, to get his information back if they do have it.”

“Are you sure about that?” Kiln drops himself into the pilot seat as Suuir ignites the tailfin engines.

“I am. I’ve been avoiding these bastards for decades, and it’s about time we have a chat.”

Beneath the ignition of tailfin engines sand begins to billow; it kicks up around the landing gear as it starts its descent, swirling around as the three hydraulic legs dig themselves into the gravel and soil as they try to find stable footing amongst the seaside terrain. It eases itself down into the shadows of an orokin aqueduct, one that had reaches out into the sea before it sits crumbled into the sea, ocean currents splashing among the hardened grey as the liset’s engines finally fall quiet – displacing itself under the veil of a void mask.

And within, Warren pushes the control column back into place.

He relieves a sigh as he rests back against the seat, edging himself down within the worn jacket as he stems to work his nerves once more calmed, prying out his datapad with a slow inhale. Taking a glance towards the hologram displayed before them he kicks up one leg, looking towards the smaller one set within the dashboard; it makes a readout of the surrounding terrain, an area measuring 50 kilometers to be transposed off to the datapad… half of it set to the sea. But, as he still waits for the ship cephalon to finish the radar sweep, he takes note of the displaced orokin structures that surround the ostron camp; to where the aqueduct that they sit within the shadows of connects further up the coastline, deep into the overgrowth several kilometers inland.

Prying himself up from the recline, he takes note of the wreckages that dot the land around them, parsing himself back to the message he had tucked into his pocket – written onto a small, slim tablet of wood handed as he asked about the shaytan of the west sea.

“31 15 07 – 29 59 22”

Comparing the coordinates to the display of the earth’s surface… the closest it leads is to a nearby Ostron outpost, the furthest west of all of them.

Above him, the cabin lights go dark. “Transfer complete, Warren,” the cephalon’s light tone speaks, setting the liset fully into idle, dropping the bay doors. “I wish you luck.”

With a sigh, Warren throws off the seatbelt. “I’ll need it. Thanks, Lain,” he shuffles himself back into his coat as he begins to peel himself out of the pilot seat – taking note he’ll need a replacement as the sleeves sting tight. “Arkis,” he glances over to his mission partner, and as per usual they’re dozing, and as he rises, gives their shoulder a light backhanded pat, “come on, we’ll need to ask around.”

A mild irritated grumble rises from the nova initially, settling as they eventually pull themselves up to their feet with a softened chirp before trotting after him; following suit and meeting his stride halfway down the ramp.

It closes behind them.

As they follow the coastline down from where the liset sits beneath a void mask, they find refuge from the setting sun in the underpass of an Ostron repossessed sentry tower; it’s one of many, Warren affirms as he stands within the shadows, one of many that brim the outskirts of the small outpost that stretches out in all directions within the datapad map. Looking over it once more he tries to memorize the landscape as they continue their approach through the shell-riddled sand – it sits ice cold as it sinks in their every step, leaving a path in their wake of clawed feet and stub boots.

It’s a trail that doesn’t last long as the sand turns into the rot of driftwood planks, a pathway that cuts in between outcrop rocks and the beneath the jagged surge of sentient bone crests. A short upwards walk that leads towards where the path towards the outpost converges at halfway with the footpath that meets the sea. Downwind there comes the ignition jets of a landing craft, one that pivots the teenager’s sight for a moment, just before the signal of a transference bolt breaches his thoughts.

Yanking the nova further up the path, he takes note of the lotus-emblemed liset that coaxes itself from the harbor’s plate landing pad, just before it rockets itself off over the churning sea.

Even then it doesn’t quite settle his nerves as he moves upwards into the outpost, pressing his back against a bleached white structure to separate himself from the harbor. Against it he tries to consult the map once more within the datapad, shrouding it beneath his jacket as he reclines himself into the shadows, trying to make himself small despite the measurable height and his currently spindly legs – things too hard to hide. And, despite his still unsettled nerves, forces himself upright.

‘You alright?’ the nova chirps over to him with a sideward glance, an antenna perked in concern.

“I’ll be fine,” the teenager sighs, fluffing up his jacket as he tucks the datapad away, “just… need to start asking around. Hope there isn’t any Lotus operatives around,” he chuffs.

As the sun continues to set, he continues to bring up conversation amongst the outpost residents about the shaytan of the west sea – a local rumor, it had so seemed, some even surprised it had managed to drift its way to the relay merchants as an old tale passed through the generations. A healer from the stars, gifted with the knowledge to heal infestation with a slight touch and a gentle grip – one that spoke of a vessel deep in the vacuum of space. Bare traces, things that left him as so firmly skeptical – but there is still the hope he can make some change even after all these years.

But his initial gentle approach becomes exhausted as the hours continue to drift, leaving Arkis to remain on lookout for the fear of a Lotus operative at their heels – their initial correspondence asked for them to not be followed, a message left to him by an unknown address as he parses back to within the datapad. And he flickers over it for a moment, staring between it and the map as Arkis offers him a smoked condroc wing.

‘Eat,’ the nova tries to persuade, sitting down at his side, ‘you’ve note eaten in the last day cycle.’

Hearing the nova speak within his mind, Warren accepts the offering with a sigh. “I know… just got caught up, is all,” he makes his excuse as the warm meat is neutralized in his mouth – his taste buds eradicated in the void out, when his insides turned black.

‘Even if you can’t taste it, you still need the energy,’ the nova chirps, their antennas flickering as the sunlight glints off their faceplate.

Sat at the edge of a stone wall, they’re shaded only by distant hanging fabrics as the sun hangs low in the sky. It’s beneath the ribbing of colossal sentient bones do they watch the flicker and rumble of the outpost’s late evening traffic, far enough away where Warren can only feel the faint signals of wandering transference bolts. The number of them, he’s uncertain, keeping his somatic signature obscured as he watches the distant travel of lisets and scimitars. His mouth presses a firm line – at his side Arkis makes quick work of their smoked wing, swallowed in a single gulp.

Shoulders slumped, Warren stares into the distance; his hair furling in the wind only to dismiss the coverage over his voided sight. Letting the wind brush against his void bent features for the brief admittance of time.

For a moment, he does ignore the steps walking up down the path.

“Hey,” a voice speaks down the same pathway, “are you the one asking about the Shaytan?” An older woman, from what Warren can guess may be within her late relative sixties… in chronological, he has no clue.

“Ye-,” Warren’s voice cracks, coughing up a piece of condroc, “yeah, I’ve been asking around for the Shaytan… would you…?” He doesn’t stand as she continues her approach, but he does tip to edge himself towards it – longer legs have made him quicker.

The ostron woman wanders over to the nova’s side as Arkis’ antenna flicker backwards in mild irritation. “Are they…?” she motions over to where the excalibur limb is strapped into place, where the nova had turned them away, the fuse more visible in the beam of sunlight.

“Yes, they’re with me,” Warren slowly takes another bite of the smoked wing, the pangs in his stomach surging as his body aches in hunger. Hesitating for a moment before fluffing his hair back into place; hiding his voided sight once more behind his hair. “Their name is Arkis… I gave them the arm and its been healing in nicely,” he tries to smile – only half peeking through his hair.

“They’re a nova… yet they have an excalibur arm,” the older woman observes as she walks around, “that’s functional,” and steps carefully around the teenager and his warframe companion. “How well as it healed,” she watches Arkis with a question.

Arkis’ antenna flare, pointing back, ‘who is she,’ glares with sightless features. A rumbled tone in their chest.

“They still have trouble with casts through the limb,” Warren briefs, putting himself slightly behind Arkis. “Who are you,” he asks back, “and what do you know of the Shaytan?”

Aware of the hostility, the Ostron woman steps back to distance herself from the temperate nova, “I know of them well, tenno.” Curiosity is slated by uncertainty, “where do your allegiance lie.” She asks direct.

“Not with the Lotus,” Warren is quick to the draw, “I’ve only been working with my… adopted father, and no one else.” He obfuscates Kiln’s allegiance – a veteran, tired of war, had expressed distain for the leadership that lead his operator to death.

“And who is your father,” she presses.

“A loki; he’s been around long before Lua –”

“Disappeared or came back?”

“Both,” Warren confirms, holding his nerves frigid as he stands his ground behind Arkis. “He’s… all I had during the war.”

The woman pauses, mouth pressed into a firm line.

She looks to the horizon – the sun nearing to set. “We haven’t much time,” sighs, “come, follow me, tenno.”

Warren flinches, “the name’s Warren. Not ‘tenno’.”

“… Warren it is then,” she continues to turn, gesturing them to follow suit. “This isn’t the place to talk, I’ll lead you to them. We can talk on the way.”

It’s south-eastward they walk, a direction that leads towards where the lowland marshes meet the thunderous domain of far distant grineer infested, preludes of the overgrowth that shatters far lower down towards the equator. And as they continue to walk over those dry, dusty hills the wreckages become more frequent as they continue; where once a single scrap of aviator might’ve dug into earth becomes the carved and empty hulls of long eroded ships, scavenged alongside the remnant bones of sentients shattered and scattered. Passing such cresting structures draws the teenager to pause, hand pressing against the old bones in idle thought.

Wondering still; was there a chance to ally…?  
The old Ostron woman continues to walk, feeling distance enough from the outpost to speak. “I’ve been traveling this path for years,” she almost laughs, “almost a monthly trek at this point, have been delivering them supplies since my father became ill…” she exhales as she eases her way up a short embankment, “not as healthy as I used to be…” grits between her teeth.

“What kind of person are they…?” Warren asks as he pulls himself away from the sentient bones, taking note of the landscape to refer to later as he steps up the rock incline. Cresting over the embankment behind the woman he catches sight of a distant wreckage, and the wisps of a small fire.

“Quiet,” the woman sighs, “keeps to themselves. I bring the ingredients to turn into medicine, they do their work, and next month I bring more, I return with medicine for the ostron children. You have no idea what diseases off-worlders bring.” She looks back to Warren and Arkis – the nova has difficulty climbing up the rocks. “The name’s Dhaara; and this will be as far as I’ll go – it’s getting dark.”

Warren’s features cross, but takes a glance to the horizon – it’s getting dark. “I assume you have someplace you need to be, or that its too dangerous out here at nightfall.”

Dhaara laughs, “of course for an old woman like me,” easing herself down the short rock slope, “ghosts wander around at night, just follow the smoke – and you’ll surely find Simone.”

Simone?

“Simone?” Warren turns back, watching as Dhaara walks the path between the bones and wreckage scraps.

“Their name is Simone,” she does call back, “just follow the smoke,” and she vanishes between the husk of a cruiser.

Left in the darkness, Warren can only relieve a sigh as he pulls out his datapad. Around them it casts a mellow light into the soil and the slow coax of wind-blown grass, and through it he looks to the map as it lights their way. Arkis remains at his side, on alert for whatever ‘ghosts’ might include.

“It must be one of those,” Warren glances off towards the distance, where an Orokin cruiser’s hull sits wind-blown, sheered into two parts several meters apart; a crash frozen in time. His steps, despite his drive, remain firm, until he finally pulls himself into stride.


	4. Chapter 4

Of course, it is dark beneath the hull of the ruined cruiser as they approach, It is where stray wires fray ever which way as they cast down from components long made defunct, where scrap metal and once golden gilding has been weathered by time and the harsh sea-borne winds. Before them it stands colossal, a half a ship pulled by collision and impact, it’s almost obvious where the initial damage has been made – where the engines have been melted into the carapace. Warren notes as they pass, holding the datapad before him as he proceeds beneath the shattered hull, following the well-worn path edged with stacks of stone.

With Arkis well on his heels, he eases himself deeper through where the wreckage meets the settled soil, where the land has already long began to consume the vessel as its own domain. At their feet they tread around the growth of vines, of moss that settles in the cervices of machine and circuitry as they near the center hull – where a campfire charcoal glows almost mute by the datapad’s light.

And as he reads a transference bolt as he unlocks his somatic signal, Warren freezes.

“Who are you,” a voice whispers, sinking in through the somatic link before he locks it out again, sight turning to where it originates above them. He doesn’t raise the datapad.

Swallowing, he forces his nerves calm. “Jacob Warren, I know you as the Shaytan of the West Sea… and Simone. I heard the rumors from the relays, and wanted to see the truth for myself – you’re a warframe, are you not?”

“That, I am,” the voice mellows, going quiet as metal creaks above them in the darkness – Warren holds a palm to Arkis’ wrist, the nova too quick to get aggressive. “Who is with you,” and there comes the creaking again, of claws striking against metal scaffolding that reverbs around the pair.

“They’re my partner, Arkis. Beside that, no one else. We’re alone.” Warren grazes the ceiling and burn holes around them, where the vessel once burned, where the hallways once existed before it got turn over onto its side. Carving a pathway above must’ve took some time, he figures as his voided eye compensates in the darkness, transposing heat over the lack of light. “I heard you possess an intact ship, deep out in space,” with heat and light, he still can’t find purchase of the voice. He swallows his anxiety, “or at least the coordinates of such a vessel.”

A heavy weight sets above them, metal sighs.

And before Warren can turn towards it off to his left the warframe drops down beside where the fire still smolders, with a weight that can only be described as a ‘thump’ as they remain on their feet. In the low light Warren can see their body disfigure in every breath they take, pulsating and molding form to form, where the clawing of pecs, ribs, and stomach skin follows an uneasy flow. 

Arkis tries to snap over, but Warren holds them firm, “Arkis, please don’t,” he almost whimpers, pleading through their sympathetic link to stand down. The nova huffs, their antenna pulled back as they never let the taller, monstrous warframe leave their sights.

Standing half a head over the nova, and only a little taller than Warren, the cobbled warframe holds their head in a tilt, a red glow breathing beneath their ‘skin’.

“Are you with the Lotus.”

“No,” Warren firms.

Tension hangs in the darkness as the embers remain the only tint of light aside from the breathing red and the cool tone of the datapad. It remains held at Warren’s side as the inner tones of his somatic sight glows, borrowing Arkis’ optical sensors to see in the darkness where his own cannot.

Before them stands not an excalibur… at least not at a closer look as the follicles of a Nidus strain peers out between the shell of skin, where externals have failed to adhere to internals in long forgotten wounds. “You’re Simone,” Warren speaks, “a warframe… body of one and shell of another.”

Simone stands quiet, seeming to wait.

“The nova,” their sights turn to Arkis, “you replaced their arm?”

“I did,” Warren breathes, “and I want to help more.”

Another pause hangs, Simone’s body falling silent – shell exteriors quietly rubbing against one another in thought. As he turns away, Simone snaps his fingers.

Around them, infested-like growths bloom with the dim red that glows with each of the faux-excalibur’s breaths. It bathes the coveted room into each sparse corner as Simone sets off to offer a seat – pulling up the refurbished wreckage of what used to be a cabin bulkhead turned into a bench. “Come, have a seat as we chat.”

Still stunned by the bloom of the glowing nodes, Warren is eager to take up the offer, needing to sit down and calm his uneasy nerves. Of course, Arkis remains at his side, watching the other warframe duck into an alcove and a makeshift storage behind the melted shell of structural support beams. Nothing is carried out much as he returns, lighting a new fire to burn before them before he chucks in a handful of shells on a slab of steel. “Have you had clam before?” He asks.

“I haven’t,” Warren replies, looking to where clams sit.

“I apologize if they don’t taste the best,” the warframe’s voice is airy, light as air escapes through their open esophagus, raspy in curt terms. “I haven’t had many visitors up here – did Dhaara lead you?”

“She did,” again Warren replies, turning his attention to the warframe as they sit upon a shattered cephalon core – the insides already fossilized, a former slurry of molded DNA. “How long have you been here…?”

“Few hundred years, I honestly can’t remember,” their shell separates as they speak, where dull tan muscles breathe beneath. “One day her father is bringing me supplies, the next I know a young girl is bringing them to me.”

Warren pauses, uncertainly stings at his tongue. “How long have you… been like that?”

“If I answer, will you tell me why you are interested in that ship,” glances back.

The shellfish continue to cook, rattling against the metal propped up over the fire.

“I don’t want others to end up like me, or like Arkis,” the teenager briefs. “During the war, I piloted countless warframes… and left them to die while I lived. There could be hundreds out there that need help… I want to help people.”

“You want to amend the damage you caused,” Simone parses the intent into a single sentence, “you cannot change the pass, but you want to change the future. Is that correct?”

“Yes,” Warren’s face draws firm. “Arkis, they were held in a corpus lab, they were the only ones that could be recovered.” At his side, the nova chirps. “Their arm, I fit it back onto them myself – maybe I could help others like that, maybe I can make a difference.”

Across from them, the faux-excalibur sits quiet, watching the shellfish as they cook, seeming to count the seconds as they sizzle within their shells.

“I pulled a corpse over myself decades ago, and it just stuck.” His fists tighten, fingers trying to temple as he resettles to perch his elbows to his knees – the arm juts sticking outwards from forearm and wrist. “I woke up in that ship, after the end of the war, and haven’t seen it since. It’s logged into my neurological systems.”

Silence, watching as the shellfish crack themselves open.

“Where you…?” Warren lets the question hang, uncertain if he has the room to ask.

Simone shuffles, sitting up straight as he looks over the clams. “I was a practitioner, Orokin. I regret every last moment of it. That’s why I came here.”

“Did you come straight here?”

“No, I bounced around the system with a ship I took from the vessel… I awoke in it, the rebel ship I had cleared out just before the moon vanished. I only settled down here years ago, to help the Ostron with the diseases spread by the offworlders.” He leans over the firepit as he picks at a clam, letting the boiled water pour out as he tilts it off to one side.

“So, you have some idea what it’s like…”

“You could say that,” Simone sighs, picking two clams from the slab and offers them to the two. “Eat it whole,” he advises as he picks up his own – and consumes both the inner mollusk meat and the shell.

Warren is just enough satisfied with the mollusk, and Arkis bites into it like they would a maprico; manners isn’t one of their priorities, but neither Warren nor Simone mind.

“How well has their arm healed?”

‘Fine enough, thanks,’ Arkis smarms, only where Warren can hear them as they swallow the remains of their shellfish.

“They still need to heal up before its properly fused, the muscle and nervous system is all in proper place, however the energy conversion between the two is out of sync.” He halts himself before he says anything further, catching the nova’s glance to the side. Holding back how Arkis is barely able to channel a radial blind through the limb, adapting to usher their molecular prime through their shoulder muscles alone where the whorls blare.

“Complications?”

“Many,” Warren sighs, “rejection, the main one.” He reaches over for a second clam as he holds the shell of the former in one hand, resting back without even flinching as flames lick his open palms. A burn that settles after a few seconds as he shakes it off to the side. Arkis doesn’t react, taking their second own with a flinch.

Simone looks on with concern. “How’s the food?” he asks, watching the blister heal in a mere moment of seconds on the teenager’s fingers.

“It’s… fine,” Warren admits with a mouthful of meat, swallowing as he places the shells onto his pants. “I’m not the best to ask, I can’t taste anything anymore.”

Simone eyes the corruption that makes the boneclaws and the exposed throat vents, as well as the clawed feet that have dug themselves down into the sandy loam. “Does it have anything to do with… the changes.” He briefs.

Awkward, Warren laughs, a smile that almost shatters itself in the hesitation. “You could say that, just wanted to see what the void was like for myself…” Arkis makes a glance, their excalibur palm patting against the teenager’s back in gesture of reassurance.

It draws Simone silent, concern drawn across their features. “I see…” barreling against pressure further and leaving it be. Settling to instead take the last of the clams. “I said I was an Orokin practitioner earlier,” he engulfs the cooked clam whole, sigh as he looks down to the fire. “My name was Monroe Hahni, and I vaccinated kids against the myriad of diseases… except it was malicious, infested by their own design.”

Warren sits silent; a momentary thought of remembering a time before. It’s only brief.

“At the time, I was working on getting my doctorate – to tend to more serious ailments and administering on-site aid in the aftermath of conflict. The things I’ve seen, how raw the processes are to keep the status quo…” he sighs, “watching as a teenager was put to death by arboriform embalmation… just to craft a core for their vessels.” A look carries to where the rot of the derelict’s arboriforms hang around them, the traces that still remain in place.

With a slight, hesitant interest, the teenager perks up, “the central nervous system, the arboriforms – are they similar or the same?”

“They are the nerves of Orokin ships, at least for most of them that feared automation. Not all of them were a result of structural embalmation… just most of them, common practice to reuse convicts.” Simone sits back, curious of what Warren knows. “I assume, you’ve done your research beforehand.”

“It’s… a hobby,” the teenager sighs, “not much else to do but research how ships work. Dad was always out on missions.”

Simone pauses, “ ‘was’?”

Features drawn tight; Warren pauses in thought. “He got hurt because of me. So now I’m picking up the slack.” A false set smile hides the pain.

“I see.” Simone looks towards where Arkis has since reclined themselves, slacking down to sit on the loam, their legs crossed and head crooked back against the bulkhead-bench. “How long has it taken for the limb to heal…?” A shift in the conversation.

“A few weeks, with routine cleaning and antiseptic. Energy leaks, blood clots… several things complicate it.” Warren glances down to where Arkis rests themselves, antenna barely flickering in a partial nap. After a moment, he separates his somatic signal from the nova’s. An action only met by a casual glance before unseen optics return to the fire. “I could assess yours, Simone,” he offers, “pardon my… wording, but it doesn’t look like the pieces are holding on just right.”

A heavy sigh breathes through the old warframe, “you aren’t wrong…” Name draws a blank.

“Warren,” the teenager stands, stepping back over the bulkhead bench, “Jacob Warren.” And steps over to the shattered cephalon core where the faux-excalibur sits as he picks out the datapad, letting the shape shift into its utility mode as a flashlight. Piece for piece, he looks over where the excalibur plates breath over exposed nidus muscles, where the fiberous furls peak out and slip beneath the soft shells. It does eventually pull a grimace to his face, seeing where the speckling of foreign bodies had once intruded around the rim of the excalibur plates – forming cysts that dot in the low light. Amongst it he also finds where old scars have healed over jagged, where connective tissue had shifted lower – worn out by misplaced trauma and where tissue has misaligned.

Warren sits back, brows drawn tight as his thoughts stem to process how the myriad of issues are to be resolved – many months of work that sit in ancient bones and misplaced blood vessels that have so far kept Simone alive. “How often do you travel outside this place?”

“Rarely,” the faux-excalibur sighs, “I’m much too weak to travel out in the open, night or day. I cannot swim, for fear the lace of spores within my body might infect the waters and throw the ecosystem out of balance. There’s not much in the way of medical supplies I do not make myself.”

Brows pressing firm, “and time has only made it worse.” The teenager whispers.

“Precisely,” Simone breathes, shell plates shifting as he breathes, rattling as the skeletal fiber tail flickers within their shadow, their spinal column set with fractal winglets that quiver in the loss of nervous tissue. A breath that fills the harrowing space within the cavern made by churned wreckage, caging inwards that makes the Nidus’ home.

A pause that gives time for Warren to return to the bulkhead bench, staring down at the fire as Simone sits proned.

“The ship,” the old warframe breathes, “what plans do you have for it.”

The pause continues, Warren pleading his human hand with his muscle and boneclaw palm. “To build a sanctuary… some type of retirement place for warframes tired of war. For people tired of the constant fighting and struggling…”

“That’s idealistic,” Simone remarks.

“I know.”

Simone watches Warren as he stares at the smoldering fire, taking minor notice of the voided sight that courses unhindered, clouding white surrounded by endless black.

“Prove to me,” he briefs, “transfer so I know I may trust you.”

“Are you considering?”

“Perhaps,” Simone exhales, his bolt signal once drawn quiet flares for connection, a mental link that only the teenager can affirm.

Pausing, Warren asks, “while I’m there, can I tune some neural wiring…? To see if any of that will help.”

“You have my permission,” nods.

Breathing a soft sigh, drawing his eyes close, Warren tunes into Simone’s transference bolt. Just as before it’s a minor jolt that crackles down his spine, a nervous fusion that grants the teenager in manual control of the nidus’ internal calibrations. He grants his known knowledge of ship systems to Simone for critique, a compare and contrast that allows the former practitioner ease to access the teenager’s ability to undertake such a task he has proposed – bringing a derelict vessel back to function – the coordinates still held behind a neural lock.

And through it, Warren tweaks the neural receptors both mental and physical. It eases a slight pressuring that moves from one skull to another; drawing the teenager to flinch, eyes pressing tight. Granted access to formal functions, Warren can read where the plates refuse to fuse, where necrotic tissue has failed to become absorbed beneath the excalibur plates – an issue he hopes will resolve after a quick tune in the internal overview. To where Simone may be able to absorb the tissue and reconstitute it into healthy muscle and connective tissue.

“That… should hopefully resolve your main issue,” he sighs as he disengages the connection, latching back onto Arkis, touching the nova’s shoulder in the ease of physical reassurance. He’s okay.

Simone, sat quiet for a moment, stands. “I’ll still need time to consider, Warren.” A mild dismissal that doesn’t dawn over the teenager’s face – too well used to hiding emotions behind a complacent mask. “You and Arkis may stay for the night; vomvlysts roam the land and it may not be safe to travel back to the outpost.” And he makes a motion to return to the upper access of the makeshift home – where the walls make the floors.

“And in the morning…?”

Easing up onto a platform separated several meters from the floor of the artificial cave, the nidus-excalibur pauses. “It may be best for you to leave at the break of dawn, for the Lotus has eyes all over.” Stepping up to another ledge, they exhale, heaving their weight onto the metal beam. “I will send a message before the next time we speak,” and vanishes into the rafters of the wreckage, leaving Warren and Arkis alone in the echo of the smoldering flame.


	5. Chapter 5

A heavy sigh heaves as he collapses down onto the bedspread. Exhausted, hands pull against the sheets, tossing them around to quickly entomb himself away from the low lights and the gaze of the opposing hologram display. Shuffle of limbs pull inwards as another sigh leaves the fatigued teenager, an arm curled up towards the back of his neck, head pressing down against the flare of a bonespur ear – for a moment his attention pulls to the datapad, thumbing through the unread messages – letting it collapse a moment after. No message returned from the correspondence with the Shaytan.  
At the cushioned bench where his back points, Arkis sits flushed, systems still straining at the cusp of overload – energy still occasionally sparking from finger joints down through the elbow jut. Antenna flicker with a mild breath of irritation, allowing a kavat to crawl up into their lap.

Outside the quiet chamber and up the rampway T’viska stands before the workstation making one last check on the handed off euphona, buffing out the scratches where it had met metal against the barrel.

“Is the liset ready,” he asks over his communicative functions, his visual receptors still hung with static as the cephalon transposes in the overlay.

‘It’s ready, Kiln has already granted the access code to dock on the C2 hangers.’

“Excellent,” the loki heaves, his golden grip flipping the euphona down into its holster he had settled at his hip; his other hand dances over the stack of daggers, a backup if he might be caught in a fight. “You already got the coordinates in place?”

‘For the Orcus relay? Yes, they’ve already been tasked in.’ Suuir watches through remote observers as the loki leans up against the workstation, shoulders heaving forward, head dropping down between them as a sigh breathes through. ‘Nervous?’

“Of course I am,” T’viska almost barks, collecting the spira blade before he stacks them off into a hidden side pocket – one that hangs beneath the sway of a decorative half-skirt that only drifts over his right hip. Patting it down and into place against the dark fabric leggings that obfuscate his leg scars, he stands with only a mild hitch in his gait. A burn still aches within the tissue of his thighs, settled enough to where he can force himself down into the orbiter’s hanger.

And it’s with a grunt that he drops himself down into the pilot seat of his liset, claws flipping up through the panels as he grants the cephalon full control of the engine functions, uncertain of how well his legs may be able to endure the prolonged stress of manually manipulating the craft on his own. Sitting back as he pulls the belt over and across his chest, he rests into a sigh as the steering column drops with an audible click, settling between his up-bent knees as Suuir pivots the liset out into free space.

Out and amongst the hologram observation, the loki can make out the echoes of other orbiters that sit sullen outside the reach of the relay Suuir directs him towards. FoF radar blips around him as it continues the gentle yet tense flight, steering up and beneath the arching limb of the Lotus relay – without so much of a word, Suuir tends to the standard operating procedures. Access codes are handed over that marks them as a new vessel for the designation of Operator Knev; a transfer that leaves them in a brief orbit as the verifications are passed through, handed from one level of command into another.

Leaving T’viska nervous as all he can do is wait.

‘Credentials are cleared; but they want to talk with you as soon as we make the cradle.’

“Great,” the loki sighs, head heaving back against the headrest. “Guess that means at least I have someone’s attention.”

‘That is, all there is for certain,’ Suuir’s presentation courses and alternates within the loki’s vision. ‘Especially since the vessel and ship haven’t been authorized to use the flight designations.’

Teeth grit, “of course,” sighs. “They going to meet me at port, aren’t they?”

The liset is already in descent towards the designated landing zone, easing forward with the nose upwards. ‘They are, so be ready.’

“I was afraid of that,” T’viska braces himself back against the seat, hissing as the liset meets the reach of the cradle and pivots it to turn, the ship making brief shutters as its heaved into position. The bay doors hanging back over the platform as the mechanics click out of their locks. Throwing the belts off, easing the control column back up to nestle within the console recess, T’viska pulls himself up to his feet, taking a mere glance to the pair that approach the dock – the markings C2-5 sat where the bay doors rest upon the platform.

Two Lotus operatives; one armed with a strun, the other, a boltor.

Step for step, he descends down onto the platform cautiously, careful to not make any sudden movements that may startle the uniquely human part of the Lotus faction – as close as it can come to ground level operations. He remains silent, watching them as between them they access the situation.

A flight designation for a different ship, a different orbiter, a different primary warframe… T’viska is well aware it ain’t exactly a good look.

“Come with us,” the boltor-wielding operative gestures, “security needs to speak with you.”

Though the situation strums tense, T’viska complies; his nerves well hardened by the years of running through combat zones. “Gladly,” his voice rolls through his chest – mouth remained in its obscured fused shape. It does, in turn, make the boltor-wielding operative jump – assumingly not used to a warframe holding conversation.

A leverage he still holds onto as he follows them up the pathway towards the checkpoint, remaining calm as he walks through the phase gate that separates the hanger from the relay proper. And upon reaching the inner access of the security checkpoint where the posted reception waits; T’viska is granted temporary passage – as long as he follows through with the credential consolidation. “They’ll need to accompany you,” they speak softly, “to get it resolved, it shouldn’t take long.” T’viska doesn’t react to the hint of deception – that he shouldn’t be here.

“Of course,” he responds – warframes aligned with the Lotus aren’t supposed to speak. A toothy smile meeting the receptionist’s own. “I’ll head in right away.”

He can feel the stare at his back as he follows the boltor operative.

Not too far off, they cross over into a small hallway where it webs into smaller rooms – T’viska is gestured into one such rooms, a conference room, from how the tables and seats are laid out. A neutral hologram shines on the opposite end of the room as he walks inside – the door locks behind him with an audible hushing sigh.

T’viska rests his hand on the euphona, though for sentimental reassurance – aware it has been neutralized in the suppression shield.

The hologram blooms to life, a cephalon obfuscation made of randomized squares and geometric formations. “Are you aware of why you’re here?” A digital voice speaks soft, barely a reassurance.

“Credential consolidation,” T’viska returns the soft tone, standing amongst the middle of the room as it shifts around him – standing his ground as his sensors remain on alert. “But I can assure you, the access codes are genuine.” He takes a moment to pause; Kiln should’ve come with him to better explain. “Not stolen.”

“They why the discrepancy? The codes were made null.”

Knev. “Operative Knev, the codes belong to them. I had only been granted them by their oberon.” T’viska shifts his mercenary tone into gear. “We have found their ship and recovered only Cephalon call-back and the oberon. The orbiter has since been lost to the void.”

“The orbiter tethered to the liset sat in cradle C2-5, it’s unmarked.”

“Abandoned decades ago,” T’viska admits, forgoing that it had been sieged and ravaged with parts.

“The cephalon?”

“Cephalon Suuir is my cooperative partner, not part of the original orbiter.”

There’s a pause.

“Why are you here then, if you are in possession of stolen materials.”

T’viska’s mouth flinches. “I had only done what was necessary to stay alive.”

“And why are you here,” comes across more firm.

Hesitation firms in the loki’s throat. “I’ve come to ask for records, of one of the operators from Lua.”

The voice pauses, “what is their somatic signature.”

Pulling it up across his vision, T’viska reads the sequence aloud. “446-976-697-96f-6e-69”

“That child is deceased.”

Silence hangs, confusion making T’viska tilt his head away and canted to one side. “Excuse me?”

“Somatic signature 446-976-697-96f-6e-69 was found to have an empty cradle, presumed dead on arrival, missing for over nine earth-relative months. The records have been sealed and filed into the archives; you may not read them.”

Eyespots held to pause, T’viska stares towards the hologram. “Their name is Jacob Warren,” he tries to file through acknowledgements, to prove the teenager is well alive. “I’m…I’m their adoptive father and have been since the war.”

“No child has a father,” the voice retains their firmness, “the Lotus is their only mother.”

Pulling himself to stand straight, T’viska walks forward. “I’ll have to disagree with that,” his voice rolls, “Warren is well and alive, and he’s been doing mercenary work. What steps will I have to go through to convince you of this?”

“By granting us access to the orbiter, by letting us fold it into the Lotus network in all future involvements,” the voice almost declares, “that is, only if you can prove Operator Diviyoni is alive can we provide the documentation you seek.”

Diviyoni?

“Diviyoni? His name is Jacob Warren,” T’viska offers a correction.

“Somatic signature 446-976-697-96f-6e-69 is directed under ‘Diviyoni’, as read from the historic documents. Jacob Warren is only an alternative name.”

T’viska holds himself reserved, an alternative name that Warren had only known himself by? It does pique his curiosity, as well as affirm his hesitation. “How can I prove what I am saying is true, for you.” He holds his tongue of further questions – answers that only may lie within the documents buried beneath another name. 

“Deliver a transcript of the orbiter’s somatic cradle,” a command that T’viska easily carries over to Suuir.

“When I hand over the transcript, wouldn’t that be enough to catch the Orbiter’s comslink signature and for it to be archived into the network?” T’viska holds firm, hand resting over the euphona.

“Yes,” the voice declares, “once it has been mesh into the cephalon weave, it’ll be identified all throughout the network as aligned with the Lotus… if you so comply.”

A threat hidden beneath acknowledging words… it’ll be known throughout the system.

Even though his distain still taints the back of his thoughts, how many times missions have been snatched up from under weary hands, how many times Lotus-aligned blades have been turned to him, used against him, shot at, bludgeoned in the midst of a fight before he managed to skate himself away under a cloak. How often the fear of running across another warframe stung in the back of his mind, that they’d tear him apart with the endless weaponry that have fueled the war that continues to rage after decades of endured trauma.

T’viska concedes, “Suuir, give them the transcript.”

“Thank you, for your cooperation. Give us a moment to verify your claims.”

And the room goes dark, leaving the only light to shine from the floorboards.

‘Is this a good idea, T?’ Suuir asks through the loki’s vision.

‘I don’t know,’ T’viska admits. ‘I cannot trust them, but I can’t fight to get Warren’s information. So, I’ll have to play their game, we’ll figure something out somehow.’

Light blooms and blinds the loki’s optical sensors for a moment, staggering him back a single step.

“All relative archives will be delivered within a single transfer packet,” the voice returns as the room settles into neutral lighting once more. “Operative Diviyoni’s credentials will be rectified within the next few hours, you are free to go.” The door’s lighting clicks to green, unlocked.

But T’viska still pauses, looking to the opposing hologram. “I assume that also grants us access to the larger mission pool,” he almost hisses, too well aware of how often missions have been filtered downstream if they never met the Lotus standard.

“That is correct,” the voice acknowledges, and clicks silent.

Leaving T’viska with the only option to leave, to return to the liset, to ride back to the orbiter with the knowledge that they’re not solo anymore – now tied to the endless strands of the Lotus.

As soon as he boards the small craft Suuir notifies him of the transferred documents, one sanctioned under a somatic signature. ‘Diviyoni’ sits at the top under the name filing, written in clear Orokin, as the name ‘Jacob Warren’ sits as an afterthought, as though it was merely an alias.

T’viska sits back as he reads over the orokin document, a relic of an age long pass.

His mother, an orokin coordinator for martian public relations.

Hs father, an off-world pilot.

Sitting back, he rests his teeth against a knuckle, reading over a history long forgotten – over the notes of upper command acknowledging yet disputing the damage done for the sake of the war efforts.

“Suuir, what’s the relative date today,” he asks, looking over the birthdate on the document.

‘Numeral date is 325, T’viska.’

The loki rests back with a sigh, fingers itching against where the flesh over his transference bolt is still healing. “Think you can put in a chart back towards Mars…? His birthplace was the capital city… I might head down to Agade with Kiln the next time he runs a mission set.”

‘I can do that. What should I do with… all the other requests?’ There comes a soft strain to the cephalon’s words as they flicker in and out. T’viska’s head snaps up from his wandering thoughts. ‘I’ll need to queue that request until after I handle all this… overlapping security breaches.’

T’viska releases a sigh, “yeah, go ahead and take care of that, Suuir. I’m… going to need some time to think things over.” He looks back to the documentation that sits within his optical sensors, reading over as the liset eases back into the orbiter’s cradle.

Taking a pause, T’viska pulls himself away from the documentation, fist striking against the back of the chair as his thoughts focus back to the disregard that had followed through word for word. Sentence by sentence acknowledging the pain that was felt, of moving from isolation to cradle back and forth; it was allowed not just from officiates, not by those that kept him a prisoner like the guards Warren only spoke about amid combat lulls. But by upper managements, sanctioned by more than the Orokin officials that needed soldiers for their end of the war.

Pulling himself back through the liset, he pulls the oberon aside; who had only just waited at the door into the hanger.

“You got the documents,” the oberon seems almost surprised, “what did you…?”

“We’re with the Lotus now,” T’viska’s voice is harsh, curled into a snarl, “no other way to get them – but now we have a name, location, his…” he holds his breathing down, all too aware of the aggression coursing through his veins. Forcing himself to calm down, “he’s from Assur – Assur, Mars, before the war. His given name is Jacob Warren, but he is listed under the name ‘Diviyoni’.” He can barely restrain the flinch in his features, “Suuir might need your help smoothing out the transition, I need some time to think, run a few missions to clear my thoughts.”

Kiln grabs the loki’s shoulder as he moves to turn, stopping him in his tracks. “What did you read,” his voice remains low.

Tension still reigns through T’viska’s nerves. “There was concerns that it would to unrepairable harm to him mentally; but since he was so good at what he was doing… they didn’t relieve him.”

“Wouldn’t…” Kiln pauses.

“They wouldn’t kill someone that’s Orokin, Kiln, even if they’re only half.”


	6. Chapter 6

The sigh of tailfin engines billow down into the culmination of martian dust, kicking an upheaval of the brown stained red and orange sands beneath the collapsed crest spire of an Orokin tower. Sat wasted and decrepit, the liset easily hushes itself into silence, the whirl of engines falling mute as air exhausts through the mechanisms, to displace the cold debris that may otherwise clog the heated engines. It sits as only one of two upon the stationed landing platforms on the westward ridge, cradled on both sides by the untold wreckage of adobe structures that sit half abandoned – a transist station, unaligned with either corpus, grineer, or lotus.

Heavy guns sit trained on the Lotus-designated landing crafts; although Grineer in the technology, it’s as unaffiliated as the control tower that checks the liset’s verification – and all T’viska can do is wait.

“Be advised, at the gate you are to either be disarmed or personnel with disarm for you,” reads over the control tower through the liset’s console commlink. A veiled threat – one T’viska has gotten all to used to in the tight lockdown.

“Affirmative,” he reads over, having already tucked his euphona into a storage hatch behind the pilot seat. The only thing on his person a small pouch that hangs from the band of the skirt. He continues to lean over the central console, rotating the diagram hologram that sits in place. “May I request a personal escort to the gate?” uncertain of where exactly he needs to go to enter Agade, disinterested in wandering around for untold hours and finding his way where he isn’t supposed to.

“Confirm, docked 3-90,” the voice comes across loud and clear, “escort is on their way. Do you have cargo that is not listed on a manifest, for transport?”

T’viska sighs, “No, just me. Prefer to be where I need to in a timely manner, is all.”

“Alright,” reads over the tower, a sigh slipping through the breakage. “Two personnel are on their way, be advised that bay doors shouldn’t be dropped until they’re on scene.”

A small wince carries across the loki’s features, looking back to where Suuir has already began dropping the ramp. “Copy,” he reads over, “Cephalon too acclimated to lose protocols.” And stations unaffiliated that aren’t as strict.

And with that, the tower cuts off to deal with the rest of the air space around the port to Agade – not too busy, but just enough to be dealt with as another ‘busy day’.

Pushing himself back from the console as it finally goes quiet, T’viska sits himself at the crest of the ramp as he waits for the escorting security detail; feeling vulnerable as the euphona doesn’t rest at his hip, nor the spira blades tucked beneath the fabric that sighs over his thigh.

‘Any idea what you’re going to look for?’ Suuir speaks through his optical sensors, remaining to the side as the loki browses the surface that rests beneath the liset’s landing gear. A flat surface once embroidered with orokin designs that now lie obscured, where the abrasive sand has done much to scuff what might’ve once been golden gilding that shown bright. Scratch marks decorate where items have been dragged across it, where a spray of blood long cleaned still clings within the grooves between the golden plates.

“I’ve no clue,” he finally sighs to Suuir’s question. “Was thinking of something birthday-ish, even though it’s been long pass for his relative-time one.” He nearly laughs, keeping his voice low as the mild chatter of the escorting guards come ever so near. ‘Try and find information about Agade for me, could you, Suuir?’ He continues through the internal coms, standing as the fully clad security guards round the sides of the settled liset.

“Welcome to Agade,” one almost chuffs; seeming uncertain as the loki walks down the ramp – a karak and harpak the pair’s weapons of choice.

“Nice to have a welcome party,” T’viska parrots back, “I take it not many off-world warframes are about,” he tilts his head to where the harpak guard stands on the other end of the ramp – an angstrum sits at their side.

Both are silent – almost as if they’re afraid to say anything in turn.

“Follow me,” the harpak guard eventually motions, leading them down the makeshift path that connects with the open plain that makes the landing port – its terrain rocky, landing spaces undesignated for local transit as the furthest from the rim sit beneath the shadow of Orokin ruins. It’s a long walk towards where the security checkpoint sits within an adobe structure, over thrown stones and white chalk scrawls – T’viska is certain for at least one thing, they’re prepared.

The buzz of the suppression field dances in the back of his mind as he struggles to keep Suuir connected to his communicative circuitry, forgoing the connection to retry in a few minutes – he’ll be fine, he assures the cephalon as he steps into the nullification dome that sits in the entryway.

‘Be careful,’ is all Suuir says in return.

It’s with a sigh that T’viska steps out into one of the leading stairwells, glancing out into the canopied light and flourish that breathes beneath the gaze of the shielding. Idly in wandering thoughts he fiddles with the bracelet that lies around his right wrist, rolling it through his golden fingers as he passes by travelers and personnel alike. He does catch the occasional glance as he passes, once stares that turn off to whatever they had in their hand or into whatever signage that sits in their view as he passes through the small terminal sat within the side of the canyon wall.

At the top of the stairs leading into the main entryway that connects into the upper rim, he looks over the scenery sat on the canyon floor; his sight grazes from the ribs of the orokin structure that withholds the spaceport overhead, over to the support beams that hold the shielding stable overhead – and off to where the greenery has enraptured the orokin architecture. And where above it looks overburden, cluttered, intoxicatingly suffocating in the density… the streets are cleared for those who walk and those riding recovered technology.

As the high tree canopies sit overhead and block the direct sunlight, the rumble of a twin-engine cycle pulls T’viska out of his wandering deliria, watching as it hums pass him as he stands to one side of the wide street and as it continues to move unhindered in the fleeting crowds. He’s undoubtably lost of where to go from here, only able to continue to wander the open streets in hope to find the borough’s center – a place for which he hopes is marked by the squared off pylon that gleans over the trees.

Self-conscious, he still rolls the bracelet sat on his wrist – a tracker.

He does eventually wander himself in the right direction, making his way to the outer rim of Agade’s central district; where crowds wait out the occasional path of transports either corpus or revitalized orokin machinery that cross out into the borough branches. At times, he does catch sight of another warframe that stands too far away to take notice or to attempt a signal flare – not that it would any much matter, as his remains suppressed by the shielding and the item around his wrist that cast his energy systems into disarray. Actions that hold him isolated as he continues down the side of the central roadways, until he finds what he assumes to be looking for.

Between the rise of Martian adobe and the revitalization of what were once orokin ruins, colorful tents sit propped along a pedestrian path separated from the main roadway. Sat lined by a variety of street vendors, quaint shops make the capstones of the venue where street-side stores walks sit crowded with travelers and local residences alike as they move along with the conversation. Humid head is held low to the ground as the people move around him – where the fire and frying sounds among the idle conversations that continue to spur behind him as he passes. Items both local and imported are declared on signs for the mixed building plans that line over the breath of the fabric roofs, losing himself in the blur of conversation that nearly overwhelm his audio processors before pressing them to dampen so he can hear his thoughts.

Walking through, end to end, he hopes to find something that catches his eye as he browses from street level, for something that perhaps he might give as a sentiment of authentic, that might give the slightest provocation of ‘home’ for the displaced teenager.

Even though, as he looks over the myriad of food to select from, it still sits in the back of his mind that taste has become a neutral factor.

It eases a grimace.

Indecisive – he pushes his way into one of the mixed plan shops, ducking beneath the low ceiling as he enters the cool interior that welcomes him to sigh.

His sight doesn’t meet the busy shopkeeper as he walks through the aisles, perusing the small selections of imported goods – only picking up his usual default when it comes to energy. Kubrow jerky – the hounds known mostly just as loyal to the Tenno Lotus.

Looking over the small stock that sits on the counter, he drops the bag onto the counter. “You wouldn’t happen to be able to know where I can withdraw from an external account, would you?” he asks the shop keep.

“Spaceport would be your best bet,” they check the amount, keeping an eye on the loki. “I assume you do not have the credits on hand, or chips.”

T’viska pauses, mind catching up from the lull of thought. “Oh, yeah… five right?” He fingers into the pouch at his side, placing them down flat on the metal surface.

“Four,” they correct, sliding one back to the loki. Taking the other four as proper off-world payment, sliding the packaging back to the warframe.

“May I ask a question?” T’viska hesitates to ask, awkward as he stands so… out of place, with his bare white among the earthy tones. All he’s met with is a stare. “I was wondering what would… be the best fit food from the orokin era around here? Something that would’ve been kind of… celebratory at the time.”

“Would be best to ask someone that’s a little older,” returns with a sigh, “only celebrations we have is the Hathi. Or visit the archives,” their exhaustion is palatable, their words almost snide if he wasn’t used to the dissuaded stares.

“Right,” the loki sighs, taking the package with him as he starts to walk out the door, pausing for an elderly man to make his way through.

“Divya,” they greet, “don’t see many warframes around anymore,” they excuse themselves through under their breath, a parcel held beneath their arm.

“Don’t see what’s not there,” the loki answers back, almost stopping himself short. “Could you… would you clue me in on the Hathi? Or, any ceremonial thing from back when the orokin where around, by chance.”

A sigh returns his question at first, handing off the parcel. “Put this in the back, would you for me, Vrieta?” A soft ‘sure’ answers; mitted hands taking the item around the stairs that lead to the second floor. And there sits a soft pause as they walk around the counter; the storeowner, T’viska presumes.

“I’m only asking because… I have a son, he’s about seventeen.” A quizzical look stares. “He might… like something from around then, or at least a sentiment.” He continues to have a hard time explaining; trying his best not to clue into something more direct.

There’s another moment of awkward silence. “A kid…?” Their glance looks to the wristband.

“Adopted,” T’viska corrects – how many countless decades ago. “It’s hard to explain.”

They check their register, perhaps hoping he’ll go away. As quiet as he tries… T’viska sighs, mouth pressed into a small defeated frown. “Hathi is the independence celebration, left to us after the Gilded ones left us behind in the fall,” they eventually admit. “Aside from that… I cannot help you, warframe.”

At least it’s a lead… T’viska exhales. “Any… idea the kind of foods would best fit for Hathi? Or would anything local work.”

“Baked goods, flame-roasted meats, and stock soups,” they answer, uncertain about the warframe remaining any longer in their shop – a concern that T’viska can feel in the peering that he catches in his peripheral sight outside.

“Thanks,” he flashes the packaged jerky with a soft smile… but its stained with his own inhibition as he makes his way out the door.

As best as he can manage, he keeps himself out of the way for the rest of his excursion.

Finally, and at last, he falls back against the pilot seat as he greets the comfort of the liset with a sigh. Waiting for the final clearance call, he quietly massages his bruised wrist where the wristband had begun to dig against the bandaging and down into the soft tissue beneath. Glancing off to the side, he stares back to where the parcels have been stowed in the cabin compartments behind the co-pilot seat.

“3-90, you’re cleared to ascend,” comes over the commlink of the landing craft. The airspace around cleared to depart.

“Copy,” he reads out as he clicks the commlink off with a sigh, letting Suuir direct him back home.

As the tailfin engines thrust and pivot them away from Mars’ surface, T’viska tilts his head against the headrest – shoulders aching from the strain with a heavy sigh. “Suuir, can you tell me about Agade’s Hathi festival?”

‘Hathi originates from the Hathiya Rite pre-fall; archivist believe it was a community coming-of-age celebration for the youth at the time – before joining the armed forces. It would’ve been a vibrant celebration much like today’s Hathi… but noted that it would’ve gotten violent in some cases, as it would take place over an entire week.’ The cephalon reads out, ‘that’s… about it I could coax from the station’s standard model.’

“Cephalon…?”

‘Proxy system… a little outdated, I’m afraid. Not very secure.’

T’viska sighs. “Think they make up for that with firepower,” he almost chuckles. “That suppression field should be enough, but damn, they went all the way with the nullifying devices, haven’t they?” He continues to rub his aching wrist. “Is Kiln aboard?”

‘Resting; should I ping him?’

“Please,” the loki sighs. “Is he still on assignment?”

‘Five of twenty,’ there’s a slight flinch from the loki, ‘he’s doing well for himself. Have you told him yet?’

With a frown, “no, I haven’t… planning to tell him after.” T’viska glances to the packages on the co-pilot seat. “Should be enough to be a pleasant surprise,” he does, eventually, smile.


	7. Chapter 7

A sigh heaves from the teenager as he drops back against the pilot seat of his personal liset; a hand cups against the snarl of his features as the systems surge alive around him and the nova sat to his side. They sit just as slouched if not more, boot feet kicked up on the console as the vessel remains in the cephalon’s control, guiding them up and out of Mars’ cultivated atmosphere – the last burst of their mission sequence complete.

“How much was that last one worth, Lain,” Warren calls up to the cephalon entangled in the landing craft’s operations, well separated from the hold of the secular orbiter. 

“Eight point seven k,” Chatelain’s soft voice is spoken over the system as the tenno stretches out, wincing as the scars that mark along his torso surge – still in the process of healing as the marks remain obvious on his coat – tatters hanging at their ends.

“What’s the total,” he as equally sighs as he holds the warm bloom of the wound, mouth turning into a sneer as he shifts – a bruise announcing itself against his hip. He curses.

“136 thousand,” the cephalon’s voice returns, casting them up from the atmosphere and into the lull of space. Where a void mask makes their only protection, pivoting through the crowd of Corpus radar in pitching yaws.

A short laugh, “that should be enough for a while…” a hand pleads at the back of his aching neck, where a phantom whiplash persists.

‘Don’t tell me once we rest up its back out again,’ the nova gives a firm stare to the tenno, antenna flaring back in the irritation.

There’s a flattened frown, Warren picking off to the side where the datapad had been stowed. “Until I get a message back about that ship… that’s all about we can do.” He can feel the gesture of an optical roll, fleeting a look over to Arkis. “You got any better ideas on what we should do instead?”

With a huff, the nova presses back against the seat, arms held crossed.

It’s with an exhale that Warren drops himself back against the seat, letting the pain from his fast healing wounds settle as he grazes over the datapad display and courses to the received messages… nothing remarks as new from the cephalon’s systems, the datapad a mere interactive branch of the solitary cephalon. There is a trace of discouragement that pulls through him as it taps down against his thigh, looking out to where he can see the trace of the orbiter’s void mask rebound sunlight – the cephalon outlining it in the dashboard display.

Exhaustion clings to the tenno as he throws off the jacket without even the vaguest hope of still managing to make it fit anymore – blood spattered, torn, a size too small that has made it even harder to aim the euphona without any relative reliance without having to pivot his entire form. “Suuir, materialize it,” he stuffs it into the foundry’s intake, where it would be broken down into its component parts, taken of what it was to be reformed into something more useful…

He taps the ammo restore as the prompt comes up; upgraded.

Arkis faints pass him as he waits for the item to be manufactured within the orbiter’s eldritch interior; a mismatching of arboriform, technology, and flesh he has only dove into once to check out for himself – a thought that always comes up as he watches the foundry with vague interest, catching sight of the nova kneeling to play with the pairing of kavats. He can still tell from a distance that some parts remain mismatched between nova and excalibur – as the flicker of the winglets that protrude never remark as consistently as the expressive antenna.

There’s a mechanical sigh as the ammo restore completes, the only thing that turns his head, and he pops it into the satchel that still hangs from his hip.

Which he lays down on the workbench top alongside the battered euphona.

Passing by the kavat guarded nova, Warren pulls off the tattered top which he soon deposits into the shower intake. Upon the back bench he folds up the datapad before the water begins to run; turning his mind from the anxious questioning to just cleaning up. Just clean up, lay down, try to sleep, run a few missions and repeat – it has almost become routine at this point for the teen as he checks the wounds to be certain they are completely healed. It’s all thanks to the same energy that pulsates through his palms; he’s able to endure the shots and the stabs, the explosions and the burns that come along with the routine of running such aggressive missions.

Scrubbing a towel through his curly hair, he sits back upon the bench as he waits for the water to finally dry, for the usual delivery of monotony to show up at his side. The usual for him; ankle-length pants and a tank top, the only form of comfort that remains as the still cling of the bodysuit remains ripped… compressing his breathing as he stares across to the opposing wall.

Tired, exhausted, he discards of it as well.

Pulling himself out of the shower stall all he wants to do is rest, running fingers through his hair to settle it back into proper place. Over his left eye, letting it hang unhindered all around, it’s a curling mess that remains unsorted as it comes to rest against the backing of the cushioned seat, placing up a foot to the ottoman as he lets the datapad rest at his side, eyes resting closed. A faint hope again that he might find a message this time; uncomfortable with how obsessed he has become with the wait.

Noise around him goes unnoticed as he pulls the datapad back into form, eyes still downcast as he questions if he should check again or later – after he has gotten some more sleep. Maybe with a fresh mind he can sort himself better – he pulls a hand against his skull, letting out a sigh. A quick browse and it’s all he needs to know – a single message sits encrypted in Chatelain’s inbox programming.

Hesitation – would it be a no?

An opposition – as it turns out to be a yes, to visit again in the coming week and they’ll talk.

There does still sit the hesitation of how he’s to pull off recuperating a ship of such a size, if the rumors have any truth to them, it’s massive.

A draft pulls up beneath his index finger, taking a quick moment to send an encrypted message of acknowledgement. That he’ll be there in a few days time. And presses send.

As the datapad drops down to his lap, there comes a sigh of relieve.

A moment after, a surprised jump as a package lands on his lap.

“Got something for ya,” he hears the loki speak off to his right, glancing over as T’viska sits down.

Confusion dances across his features, eyeing the curious paper wrapping that lies over the datapad. Down further to the side, Warren can see another parcel; three of them. As hesitation still clings, he picks at the packaging.

Within… he pulls out sash that shares his personal liset’s colors; a deep rusty red with golden trim. “What’s… this,” he questions, though able to make out the material as he lets the paper wrapping fall to the side, looking over to T’viska with furrowed brows.

A small smile meets his confusion, “just a little something from Agade… for your Hathiya rite, little birthday sort of thing.”

He ignores the tug in his chest, looking down at the sash once again, “but it’s…”

“I know… I’m a couple months late,” T’viska smiles, picking up another parcel – its still warm to the touch as Warren takes it. “Had to keep it warm in Suuir’s core, since you went on your little mission jaunt.” Warren, quicker this time, pulls open the folded packaging, a collection of fried meat that toasts his lap, separated by parchment paper. “I’m… sorry if you might not be able to taste it, they assure me you might be able to enjoy it still.”

Loss of words, Warren pulls his mouth into a line, staring back to the loki. “…Hathiya rite?” It’s a question met with the two other packages – Warren sets the fried meat onto the ottoman.

“Pre-fall celebration,” T’viska exhales, giving a nod over to the hologram that sits across from them. For Suuir to pull up the records for ease of access soon. “It was… a coming-of-age celebration back in your time, but I’m a couple months late.”

Tearing out a shawl colored pigeon blue with byzantine purple, the teenager bolts his attention back to the loki, “does… that mean…?” He pins his emotions back, hands balling into the material; his voice strains.

There’s only a partial smile, burying the full truth behind it all. “Yes, I managed to find the records… the ones the orokin kept on you, that you came from Mars pre-fall.”

To go through so much – with Lua already pillaged – for him? A scrappy kid that thought of himself of nothing but a burden to others… tears trace along the teenager’s sight, trying to make sense of it. “H-… you went through the trouble, to find that…?” Holding himself contained, aware that Arkis has slipped into the room, peering over the divide at their backs.

Leaning upon one knee, “you’re my son, Warren. I wouldn’t second guess doing it again – I’m not the best parent, even Kiln tells me that I keep too much to myself, don’t talk when I need to… I held up that the sympathetic link was there since we first engaged transference. I should’ve told you; I should’ve done so much more – but I don’t regret pulling you out of Lua, I never had.” He can spot the welt of tears, the heave of sniffs. “I went looking for your records, because you deserve to know who you are, and not burdened by what they’ve done to you. That even your name was kept from you…”

A brief hiccup, Warren messing his face against a wrist as he holds the blanket against him, picking at the last parcel. “What was it, was it even Jacob…? Was it ever Warren…?”

“Diviyoni.” Warren stares at the loki; an orokin name. “Diviyoni, Jacob Warren… last one was your civilian name.”

Confusion, the teenager’s brows remained tight, the welt of tears still brimming his sight. “That’s…”

“Orokin… I know. Your mother, she was Orokin.”

Fingers stop peeling, a mouth pressing flat. There is a soft sigh that moves through him, breathed out of the vents on his left side. “You know how I went to earth, so suddenly the other week…?”

It’s T’viska’s turn to hesitate, knowing how sudden the request was. “Yes…?”

Warren picks at the final parcel, where some dried meat rests within. “I was… following a rumor, about a ship on the furthest reach of the system, that the location was only known by one person… the shaytan of the west sea.” He looks to the loki and is only met with a confused stare. “I found him, an old warframe that wears another as though it was new skin, combined together, more intricate than Arkis.” He makes a motion to where the nova leans behind them, “Simone, he asked me what I was going to do with it if I had it… and I told him I wanted to make a sanctuary… for those tired of fighting. For a place far from the Lotus, where she can’t find them.” Almost in full he brightens up, mouth turned into a small smile although its stained with the trace of tears, trying the dry meat even though he can’t actually taste it. It’s enough to know his father actually cares.

“That’s a great idea,” T’viska holds repressed even though his voice does not convey it, uncertain if he should bring up the catch that came with Warren’s records – the Lotus. He still smiles all the same, just seeing his son happy for a change, “and do more of what you’ve done with Arkis?”

“Yeah! And I was thinking, with all I know about ship systems, and so much more I can learn from them–” he pauses, “I, I don’t know how but I can commune with the ships with arboriforms, I can feel their pain and tell where something is wrong.” He confesses adamantly, tone overjoyed and speaking freely. “I could help more than just warframes, dad, and I might even be able to make a ship self-sustaining, alive again.” His posture is forthcoming, alert, engaged even though the loki sits partly slumped.

Warren can tell something is wrong. His mouth draws a line.

“I had to align with the Lotus to get the records, Warren,” T’viska’s hands pull tight, “they had them on lock, they thought you were dead.”

A pause, “because you pulled me out of there,” Warren concludes. “Either you found me, or they did…”

The whirl of the nova’s whorls hum behind them both.

Warren then sighs, “I would’ve done the same… and I don’t mind as much as they’re not let in on the ship.”

“You have Chatelain disconnected from Suuir, right?”

“Lain only hitches a ride on Suuir, but they never really connect. Everything they do is encoded,” Warren adjusts himself, sitting up straight as he takes another bite. He enjoys it more for the crunch than anything else.

“Then they won’t know as long as we don’t get close. They only latched Suuir to the cephalon weave; when I went to Agade, I was brought with the same security as any Lotus operative would.”

“So, your liset is bugged, and mine won’t be,” Warren sighs, looking up to the hologram across from them, eyes dancing over his thoughts. “I can deal with the Lotus on our tail… as long as its only with yours and not with Lain… makes sense why it was so easy for Suuir to lay out those twenty missions when earlier. You meet at a relay near Pluto?”

“Yep,” T’viska sighs, leaning back on the cushions, “Kiln clued me in, they interrogated me why I had Knev’s authorizations with a different orbiter, liset, everything.”

Warren laughs, brushing a tear from his sight, “figures, with how locked up everything else is.” Placing the items down, he moves over to give the loki a strong hug. “Thanks dad,” comes with a smile, arms pulling around him welts his tears before they finally pull back. “Think you can have Suuir transfer my records to Lain…? So I can look them over later.”

“Of course,” T’viska smiles, “just get some sleep first, would be best to look over it with a fresh mind.”

Warren laughs, “I will, don’t worry.” And he folds the datapad up, storing it away as his attention returns to the food… to the gifts he soon wraps over his shoulders with a smile.


	8. Chapter 8

As systems come alive around him, Warren reaches up and flips the ramp to manually close.

“You’re going alone?”

“Yep,” the teenager sighs as he drops himself down into the pilot seat as the ramp begins to ease itself to hitch into place. “Told Arkis to stay with dad, I’ll be fine on my own,” he glances towards where the holograms surge to life before him, attention turning towards the navigational readout that presents on the central panel as he straps himself into the seat. Listening as the ramp hitches back, Warren can feel as the tailfin engines rise the liset out of the cradle, coaxing them free from the ship’s grasp before it sails from the hanger.

The void mask blooms around them as they depart the relative safety of the orbiter’s net, and Warren unfolds the datapad on his lap – the lone director for the personal mission at hand.

“It’ll just be a recon,” he admits as he scrolls pass his reclaimed Orokin records, “the most I’ll come up against might be a few infested, depending on how active they are,” he mumbles as he browses back through the neural capture made by Suuir’s sweep of the cephalon weave. Information once obscured filling the rifts left in his own documentation sat within the same device – the transfer made from cephalon to cephalon, encrypted and out of the Lotus’ reach. A single finger scroll brings him back to the information he was looking for; coordinates, near Uranus’ outer orbit.

It pings on the overlay to his front right, zooming into frame as it blips the travel time. 40 minutes.

“Assur?” the cephalon quietly questions, adjusting their trajectory from the outskirts of the gas giant’s current reach. “Isn’t that a clustered wreckage yard?”

“It is,” Warren reads back, turning through his datapad. “Derelicts left adrift in that region… lot of infested activity that surges each time Uranus makes it pass – takes a few with it each time.” He muses, “likely all that remains of the Martian capital city before the fall… apparently most of them evacuated onto capital ships, trying to escape the conflicts.”

“That all from the Lotus alliance…?” asks gently, the cephalon making their bisected triangle shape before him on the wide display – obscuring part of the grineer ships they fly past. Warren easily steadies himself, bracing against the chair as he browses back through the device.

“Mostly,” the teenager exhales, “I just kinda assumed since the names are similar, and that we’ve ran through the area before – me and my dad.” He turns his blue sight towards the hologram display, “Suuir just dug it up to corroborate – it was apparently the major spaceport hub, at least on Mars, and Agade relied on it. It’s where I was born,” he pauses, “just saw it on there and… made the connection.”

They sail around the bulk of a grineer patrol – over the localized radio they can hear the last-call, the area to be abandoned for the next several cycles. “Do you… have any idea what you might be looking for…?”

“Not a clue, actually,” sighs, flipping back through the datapad. “It’s, honesty just curiosity to see what might’ve happened to it, I guess? It was never my home… I never felt like I belonged anywhere, actually,” his voice draws quiet, mouth pressing into a firm line aside from the fanged snarl beneath his curls.

Little by little they start making their way back from the debris trail left in Uranus’ wake, where ships of all factions and age cluster one over the other – wreckages once smoldering sat fused in time. Abandoned, left for scavenging and explorers, it makes an excellent nesting ground for the grime of the infested as it mats ships together in its overwhelming twine. Machinery molded into sickly flesh fuse fuselages one to the other as the bulges of infested cysts glow in the dim light of the distant sun – the liset casts out a flare from its forward seeker hatch, giving them both view of the quiver that meets the heat.

Even though the cephalon’s voice is soft, his disgust sounds the same. “I would rather prefer to not go in blind, thanks,” shivers through the liset’s systems, the tailfin engines whispering front thrusters to allow them to hover in place.

“Fair enough,” Warren exhales, watching as the frontwards visualizer disengages to allow the central hologram to surge brighter – casting him into the glow as the cephalon makes a radar sweep through the ships that sit before them.

Above them it reads a corpus capital war-ship, cracked in two as other vessels sit clustered around it torn asunder; where a variety of grineer ships sit sullen where there might have been an attempt to port the overrun ships to stave off the infested assault that may have once threatened their war-ships as the gas giant moved pass in the distance – years sit marked into their call signs that return. Repeats; reused to diminish their sheer numbers.

Taking a hand over the hologram, Warren draws it out to get a clearer view. “Lain, can we check around the far side of it? I want to get a clear overview, check how many in there are Orokin vessels. Derelicts.”

Without so much of another word, the cephalon charts a course around the clustering of infested drenched ships, steering out of the cast-off wreckage that drifts in the vanishing gravitational pull.

It takes a few more minutes until the entirety of the cluster is disclosed to the radar map, at least for the ships that still have an active beacon or that the liset systems can identify the reflectors. Twenty-three, at the most are Orokin in origin, some remarked as scrapped and torn by scavengers, others sat in the belly of the infested nest. “Can you try and ping the primary…?”

“Not from this distance,” Chatelain repulses, “but if I can find a way to squeeze past the node nests…”

“Only if its safe for you, Lain,” Warren remarks in return, rotating the display before him as he completely pulls himself from the chair, leaning against the dash as his claws click against the floor… his clawed hand tapping against the surface. “Its likely this largest one…” he points out with a boneclaw index, “can you make a material sweep? To separate out infested from ship caraspaces.”

The cephalon sighs, “I can at least try.”

Within the hologram before him comes the overlay that colors it in red and gentle gold, sections dividing polygon by polygon as he rotates through once more. Fragments linger outside the edges of infested surges, where ship to ship they connect and bundle into a festering nest. Small ships nestle aside each other as the larger ones seem pulled away – stuck in time where an what seems like a capital ship remains smashed into pieces.

Infestation blooms from the inner access of the ship as far as Warren can make out, where arboriforms fester outside the hull and tangle around the infestation that blooms sick.

“That might be it, looks like the nervous system got hit by the infested… wonder what had happened to it.”

“Could be the infestation,” Chatelain laments, diverting their attention to finding an access point.

“Probably,” Warren sighs, “though with how long it’s been around, anything is possible at this point.”

Glancing off to the datapad, he laments; would the ship even house the answers he seeks, as to why they kept him in the program. “Any chance we might be able to boot the subroutine systems once I’m aboard?”

“We’ll have to find out,” comes over the speakers above him, “there’s an access hatch on the lower edge – you’ll have to walk it out over the growth.”

Grabbing the datapad, he collapses it. “I was afraid of that,” he partials, thankful for his newfound adaptive biology as the furls of his throat breathe. Able to hold his breath for long durations… able to fend off the temperate chill that lies outside the liset. “Tell me when we’re above the nearest branch,” he calls out as his clawed feet step backwards so he stands at the edge of the floor hatch – where the downwards compartment awaits him.

He never liked the cramped spaces… stuck in the dark with no escape save for the cephalon’s protocols.

It reminds him too much of the somatic cradles.

“I’ll guide you through the pad; I’m set in place,” calls over; and Warren slips into the enclosed compartment, nerves tense as the bulkhead closes above him… and then he’s rotated out into the open space.

The ache of chill burns against his skin as he lands on the thick strand of infestation, his claws digging against it to find his own footing. One up-side, at least to the corruption.

Breath held, he opens the datapad and courses it to Chatelain, directing it off to where the cephalon describes – where an open maintenance hatch sits busted by infested rot, just enough for the teenager to squeeze himself inside. If he had been any larger… he might’ve not made it through.

His palms glow as he shoves the airlock back into place, his body near unfurling as oxygen hits his frosting throat – ventilation giving way to a deep inhale.

“Lain,” he almost coughs, following the glow of the resurging emergency lighting, “found a way into the systems?” A hand holding against the transponder.

“Backdoor access,” the cephalon remarks, “but there’s not enough power coming through. If there’s something you want to retrieve from it, would be best to go right to the source, get the information from there.”

“Yeah,” Warren coughs, rubbing the chill from his throat, curling frozen strands obscure his sight until he brushes it away – letting his voided eye stare unhindered. It follows through the walls with temperature readings, a blink setting it straight before the fainting glow returns with a sigh. “Any chance you have directions to it? The nervous system is completely dead, only thing I’m reading through the walls is the infestation – aboriform or not.” He holds the datapad up towards where warmth pulsates – where a mild red glow throbs beneath.

He turns away with a sigh, holding the device before him as his back lies against the wall. “Any sigh of hostiles?” he queries.

“Negative, looks like it has spent all its energy on the outward branches… I still advise you proceed with caution.”

“Right…”

Warren doesn’t keep track of time as he moves through the orokin derelict; merely taking stock of the machinery that lies broken and mangled by the overriding infested flesh and arboriform weaves. Bunkers sit in ruins, cloth tattered and scattered – yanked fibers hang above him as he scavenges the wreckage for a trace of historic activity. Only to end up empty as he moves onwards to the next, scaling himself over the twisting form of a half-caved in hallway where an arboriform branch has crumpled into the path he must take towards the core system breach.

Might’ve it been hours…? He doesn’t check as he lies against the doorframe, fingers tapping through the datapad as he checks the mapping once more – he should be inside it right now if it wasn’t for the internal collapse that forced it downwards. The only clear way down being the cracks in the floor where a civilian hallway turns into a myriad of a midpoint outpost. The floor bows down a smidge, where it has broken completely before the internal structure snapped.

Folding it up and shoving it into his pocket, Warren takes a deep breath.

Void energy swirls around his fist as he moves into a kneel.

And he strikes down into the floor; eyes drawn into a flinch as the metal compacts beneath the force of the sudden blow, heat sundering back as he rolls his shoulder – realigning the sting in his shoulder muscles.

And again, he punches down, knuckles barely blistering as the impact heat strikes back, breaking through into the lower portion of the level floor – still not enough. But the metal bends beneath his boneclaws as he pulls sharding metal back, giving his other hand more space to make a following blow.

Once more the energy blooms in resurge, following his arm through to deliver a strike that cuts through the metal sharp, blistering it down into the ebbing light of the infestation beneath – he must keep going.

Another. And another. And yet another he delivers the void imbued punches to the floor, shattering the metal and the wires that run beneath as he makes the hole wider, larger so that he may fit in full.

Blood and torn tendons decorate his fist as he finally pulls back; satisfied with the cavernous hole he’s made in the floor as a snarl still remains on his features. It’ll all heal; he shakes his fist off to the side, caving it against his stomach as he pulls the datapad out once more, letting his legs dangle down into the damage done. “Below is the main hall for the cortex core, anything I should look for to allow you to tap in?”

“I might be able to tap in through the datapad’s connection,” Chatelain quietly responds, their representation on the device shuffles with curiosity, “but… you’ll have to get closer to retrieve the data… the powers still too weak at this distance to be much use.”

“Got it,” he exhales, and pushes himself to drop through the hole.

Claws tap against the proceeding floor as he lands; a short distance down, he parses as he looks back overhead. “Should I go by all the cortex cores, just to be sure we collect everything?”

“We’ve no reason not to,” Chatelain enables; to which Warren slips a smile.

One by one he passes around the settled cortex cores of the orokin capital ship, holding the datapad firm as the transceiver peers through the somatic overlays and catches hold in the intermittent space. “Anything in particular that I should be looking for?” the cephalon tones through the transponder, piecing through the data at an incredible rate. 

Warren sits beside a set of the cores with crossed legs, watching with mild features as the data is scavenged from the null core – it’s not dead, just held in suspended animation as the emergency lights still resound with an amber glow. “If at all possible, anything that might have the utterance of ‘Diviyoni’,” he sighs. An ambient trace of his curiosity still lingers as he watches the data-stream move from the cores and into the reservoir hold of the liset outside the ship’s hull, where from it can be transferred into the partitioned space within the orbiter’s own cortex core – compressed down, of course. There’s only so much a singular one can hold, after all.

When there’s a gentle ping in the corner of the device, he pulls himself from the floor and marks the set with a hash-mark slash.

Silence hangs in the back of his mind as he waits for the cephalon to collect everything they can from the derelict’s cores, cautioning himself for the disappointment of a resounding nothing – for there to be no mention of him, someone not even remarked as memorable and he’ll have to search all over again for the answers that still hang from the drape of the Orokin records. A request to withdraw him; denied by upper command, despite the enduring pain.

They kept him inside the somatic cradles, piloting a body count for their self-fashioned war.

And for what…?

It’s a thought he allows to pass through him as time ticks by in silence, allowing himself to rest against the cortex core units as he still remains exhausted – forgoing much needed sleep for the task at hand. Curiosity overtaking his own needs, he smiles with a soft laugh, of course.

Eventually, the cephalon makes their presence known again, “that’s the last of them, isn’t it?” Is asked gently, rousing the teenager from his brief nap. Pulling himself up, he checks the cortex core holds for the boneclaw markers. All five are accounted for.

“Yeah, that’s all of them,” sighs.

“Want me to hold the relevant data on the device for when you get back?” A question asked as Warren begins pulling himself out of the punched-out hole.

“Sure,” he grunts as he heaves himself over the harsh edge, careful to not scratch his stomach or side with the metal. “How many did you find?”

“Not enough for you to lose sleep over,” the cephalon jabs, guiding Warren back through the derelict. “Only a few scant mentions, mostly from one genetic marker. Orokin.”

It draws Warren to pause; his mother was Orokin… could she…?

“Lain,” he forces himself to exhale, letting the anxiety wash through him, “might there be an audio track, or a video on that list…?” He wants to hear her… know who she was.

“Just one; was collected from one of the neighboring freight derelicts. If you want I could –”

“No,” interrupts, “can you… just play it as I make my way back to you…?”

There comes a pause from the cephalon.

And there’s an audio hitch – a deep warm voice speaks in return.

“I don’t even know why I’m making this,” muffles as the recording comes to life over the transponder. Warren holds out the datapad… there’s no current video, but the audio oscilloscope has a name attached to it. Karna Duvastr; populous director. “But, by the void, there’s not much left I can do now, is there?” Heaves a dry laugh, exhausted, fatigued – frightened. “The whole entire system’s gone to ruin – I don’t even know if he might even find this… I don’t even know where he is now that Lua’s been taken by the void!” Sighs, a welting of tears speaking against his ears as he moves through the derelict – through halls that might’ve once been a crowning glory.

“Diviyoni… I’m so sorry, I should’ve been there for you, I should’ve kept you with me on Assur where it was safe, where you wouldn’t have gotten caught up in that whole Zariman mess. Your father… he was a good man, sharp, he would take care of you better than I ever could have but he didn’t have protection from the Venusian and Terra elites. But at the same time… you did so well, you helped millions of people thrive despite how much they put you through… I couldn’t just let our people suffer more tragedy, especially after the inner conflicts I…” A biting hiss, a sigh that turns Warren’s features to crumple – a mix of distain and confusion. “I couldn’t just let you out of there, Divi… outside of… outside of those traitors from Margulis, you were one of our last few hopes to make it out of the war… what am I even saying,” flusters, irritation surging with a throated growl.

“He’s not going to find this…” sobs, “Divi, mother’s so, so sorry…I thought after all of this I might’ve been able to get you out, take you home, give you a home… but you’re on Lua. Margulis took Lua away from us and you with it.” Warren pauses as he waits at the brim of a bulkhead doorframe, looking down to the datapad as only sobs sound through, where the beam of alarms begin to grow louder. “There’s not many of us left… Margulis is killing all of us, even if we had no part in this, she’s killing all of us!” Nearly screams, making Warren wince. “I… I need to evacuate again, I hope that I can make it aboard a void-status, escape to the bliss until the slaughter is done… I love you, Diviyoni.” And it repeats again before a rustle, cutting short as another voice cries that they have to go.

Warren only stays silent, easing himself back towards the airlock that houses the escape back to the liset. His features sit flattened, only breathing out a sigh as he empties himself to refill his oxygen supply before he makes the space walk back.

He says nothing as he reaches himself up into the hatch compartment.

“Warren…?”

“What is it, Lain?” his voice is calm… soft, even. His frustration held restrained as he’s rolled back into the liset, peeling himself out from beneath the hatch.

“Just making sure you’re alright,” the cephalon sighs, pulling them back from the infested masses, outlining the ship that the message was recorded in.

Warren dismisses it. Sitting himself into the pilot seat as the datapad becomes folded against his side. “So, she allowed it…” he sighs, arms crossing against his face. “Because I was a valuable asset… no wonder they said those things back then…”

Chatelain remains quiet, observing as the teenager pulls his arms back over the headrest, staring out where the hologram display of their forward vision clears once again.

“Lain, store the rest of them, that recording was just enough…” She was never really there for him, and when she was… she allowed him to suffer under torment because he was valuable as a weapon. “I want you to send a message to Simone, I might be expediting that trip to see him.”

“Oh it,” there comes a pause, “I assume you would prefer more information on the ship’s systems instead? To base a template off that future plan of yours.”

Warren smiles, glancing up to where the remote observer sits in the roof. “Yeah, give me that to look over. Always wanted to have the direct diagnostics.” He disregards the thoughts of his mother; she wasn’t there for him when he needed her help, so why should he even care about her?

**Author's Note:**

> -+- Kudos, sharing, and comments are encouraged! -+-


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